


Vanity Insanity

by Paclipas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookstore Owner Castiel, Classic Cars, Crack Treated Seriously, Developing Relationship, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Humor, Literature, M/M, Many Character Cameos, Mechanic Dean, Mystery, Pop Culture, Ridiculous Problems, The Author Regrets Nothing, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paclipas/pseuds/Paclipas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good looks truly are a blessing- until they're literally a curse and you temporarily have to move in with the guy you kind of really have a crush on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a 5k crack!fic based on a really random idea. Things kind of... escalated. 
> 
> I basically attempted to write a serious Destiel AU on a truly ridiculous background. I honestly do not know if it's a successful endeavour.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's a challenge," Sam explains as if the situation is clear. "You did your flirty-thing out of habit, the guy ignored you, and now instead of moving on like anyone else would do you're suddenly desperate to get his attention."

At 25, Dean Winchester is a pretty fine specimen of a guy, and he damn well knows it. Dirty blond hair that grows more and more into sandy brown every year, green eyes that should be illegal, and a pearly white smile that's just to die for- if he himself may say so, thank you very much- turn the heads of girls and guys alike, almost breaking their necks when they stare after him just a bit too long. Dean loves the attention and the swooning, being the natural flirt that he is. Life is easy as long as everyone loves you, according to Dean. And everyone loves you as long as you look good, which Dean does. A little vanity never really hurt anyone, did it?

Dean knows fully well that he tends to rely on his appearance and natural charms a little too much if he has no one to reign him in and keep him on the right side of the border between being a flirt and being a douchebag, and usually his little brother Sam, and Jo, one of the siblings' oldest friends since childhood days, do a decent job with that. But ever since the two 'kids' went off to college and travel the world outside of their little Kansas hometown Dean is all on his own with his flirtations and more often than not he scares girls (and maybe the occasional guy, shuddup) off with his comings-on as of late. It's time Sammy and Jo got their asses home for spring break, basically. Until then, Dean will continue as it is even if he risks the odd drink splashed at him by an outraged girl that just can't appreciate his frankly really very smooth advances.

It isn't often that he actively gives a thought to the matter of his dating experiences, or attempts at such, but he's bored and on his lunch-break and maybe kind of misses his little brother a bit too much after months of not seeing him. So he sits there in a little café on Main Street, enjoying a cup of black coffee and a delicious bagel, winking at the cute waitress whenever she steals a glance at him, and debating with himself whether or not she'd be offended if he outright asked her to get it on with him in a supply closet. A little voice inside his head that ridiculously resembles Jo's advises very strongly against that notion and Dean isn't really in the mood for anything this kinky anyway, hasn't been for years.

Maybe he's, like, growing up or some shit.

He gives a quiet snort at this particular thought and turns his attention away from the little waitress to the row of shops on the other side of the street. People-watching is relaxing and he still has roughly twenty minutes of break time left, so it's way too early to make his way back to Singer's Auto Reparation & Restoration, where he works alongside Bobby, and old friend of his and Sam's dad. The weather is slowly but surely getting warmer and people are more eager to leave their houses and offices around this time of the day to run errands, do their shopping, or simply take a stroll. Dean itches to maybe give Charlie a call and ask her over for a little chat but he guesses on a day like this it is likely she's at an impromptu LARPing session, meaning he won't reach the Queen of Moondor anyway.

Across the street, a man pushes little carts filled with books outside, placing them on either side of the entrance to his store where they'll be easily accessible and catch the eye of passers-by. His expression is earnest, as if the work requires utmost precision. It's the first time Dean notices the guy, which is odd seeing as he frequents the café across from his store several times a week, but he's never actually lost a thought to the little establishment. Now that he has the time he takes a bite off his bagel, washes it down with a sip of coffee, and leans back, reading the sign above the store's entrance. _Divine Words_. A bit pretentious for Dean's taste but okay. He doesn't know what appropriate names for bookstores are anyway, the only one he's even aware of is Barns  & Noble and even that simply because his nerdy brother has only ever wished for gift cards from there since his thirteenth birthday. Dean is different. Books can't hold his interest for long, never have, even after Sam told him repeatedly that a little reading now and then couldn't possibly hurt.

Maybe he should pay the store across the street a visit someday to ease his boredom. And definitely because of the literature offered, not because of the guy who sells it. He looks uptight and unfriendly, Dean notices, wondering why in the hell he decided to work in an industry that required social interaction when he so obviously seems uncomfortable even from a distance. The guy's posture is stiff as he stands on the sidewalk, eying his work, but changes into something more relaxed when he runs a hand over the backs of the stacked books in the carts. Suddenly Dean understands. The guy isn't doing this for the people, he's doing it because he obviously enjoys handling the countless paperbacks and hardcovers. Dean makes a mental note to text Sam about the store, sure that someone with such a passion for books can't have passed under his brother's radar. It reminds him a bit of himself and his love for cars. He, too, could do without the nagging customers on most days. Except if they are really pretty.

Intrigued, Dean steals a glance at his watch. His break is almost over and he only walked to the café so it would probably be better to get his ass back to work- but before that he still wants to visit _Divine Words_. If only to convince himself that he still isn't interested. He drops a couple of bills on the table to cover for his lunch and makes his way across the street. When the guy sees him approaching as he looks up from his books he straightens himself, looking Dean up and down as if to try and guess what type of person he is. Dean doesn't really like being evaluated like that, it's different from being ogled appreciatively. Regardless, he puts on his effortless smile, ready to hit the guy with his unrivalled charm full force.

"Hello, welcome to Divine Words. May I offer my assistance?" The guy greets and Dean's smile almost falters because, fuck, he didn't expect that man to be quite so… _handsome._ Up close. His hair is a mess, but it somehow doesn't seem like one, his eyes are the most ridiculously flawless shade of blue, and his voice is just about low enough to be borderline X-rated. In short, Dean is suddenly very interested in, uh, _books_.

"Just came here to have a look," Dean says, smiling, as he trails the length of the mystery guy's body appreciatively with his eyes. The double-meaning of his words is so obvious, he's certain the other man must have noticed. Maybe it was a blunt move to make, but Dean is running out of time and he just wants to know if he can get a reaction out of the dude, see if he even bats for the same team, so to say. The very faint taint of a blush below the slight stubble of the guy's cheeks is indication enough.

 _Jackpot_ , Dean thinks smugly.

Before Dean can make another comment, the guy clears his throat and forces his expression back into a neutral one. "Very well," he says, "I will leave you to it then."

And wait a second that is _so not_ how this was supposed to go, Dean thinks as he watches the dude turn on his heel and walk into the bookstore without so much as a glance back.

* * *

Originally, Dean planned on returning to the café the next day to watch the bookstore a little more but just before his lunch break starts a cherry red 1959 Cadillac is towed into the driveway and of course there is no way in hell he can leave a car like that in obvious distress. So he quickly abandons the thoughts of bagels and bookstores and jogs up to Bobby, who is manoeuvring the tow truck across the yard to the last free space in the garage. Within minutes the blindingly red car is placed on the hydraulic ramp especially designed for the bulkier vehicles of earlier decades. Singer's R&R specializes in the classics and business is going well considering most customers are going out of their way to have their beloved cars treated by two small-town mechanics instead of the hotshot braggarts from bigger cities that are closer. The Cadillac, for example, was flown in from friggin' California. It's, as the mechanic learns, the newest possession of a long-standing customer, whom Dean only knows by the name of Balthazar. The guy is practically hedonism incarnate, his entire life consisting of women, fast cars and expensive dining. He's a pretentious douche but Dean still finds it hard to truly dislike the guy, especially when he gets to work on such beautiful machines through a customer like him.

Speaking of work, Dean should probably stop staring adoringly at the car and start figuring out what's wrong with her, judging by Bobby's expectant expression. So he sighs, wipes his hands on the greasy rug hanging from one of his overall pockets and walks up to the vehicle to look at it up close. There's a few dents in the sides and the paint-job needs to be re-done completely but otherwise the machine looks to be in remarkable shape. Whoever was the previous owner obviously took good care of her, Dean thinks as he pats the rear fondly.

He revises his opinion once he gets a look at the engine. Or rather at the gaping emptiness where it's supposed to be. "Son of a _bitch_ ," Dean mutters, irritated. He thought this was going to be more of a beauty-job, so to say. Now he has to find an entire friggin' engine for a more than 50 year old car. It could take weeks, maybe _months_ to find all the parts, especially if Balthazar insists on using authentic ones. Which, knowing him, he does.

Well, there's nothing Dean can do about it now except make a list of everything he'll need for Bobby to hopefully find and order, online or otherwise. Dean sighs and pats his numerous pockets for a pen and crumbled notepad before he starts scribbling down all the important parts he knows by heart. It may not be a '67 Chevy Impala like the one he himself owns but it all starts out with a good old V8 engine and Dean will see where he goes from there.

Once Dean's filled several wrinkly pages he goes to find Bobby in his office. A grumpy voice yells at him to come in even before he gets to knock and Dean pulls the door open to find his boss sitting behind a mountain of files stacked on the ancient desk. Bobby raises and eyebrow and Dean knows exactly what it means: _Whaddaya want, boy?_

Instead of an answer, Dean tosses the notepad on top of the pile. "Balthazar's gotta think he's our only customer," he mumbles, arms crossed, while Bobby flicks through the notes.

"I'll call Rufus. Old geezer might still got some spare parts left. We'll put the Cadillac in storage 'til we can start workin' on it." Dean shrugs a shoulder in agreement. Rufus is a hunting buddy of Bobby's who sometimes helps them out with all things rare but never without thoroughly complaining about it beforehand.

"Keep me updated," Dean requests before grabbing the keys for the tow truck off the hook next to the door to move the red muscle car into the warehouse behind the garage, slightly disappointed that he can't get started on the machine right away.

"Wipe that frown off yer face," Bobby scolds, recognizing the look on Dean's features for what it is. "Gotta finish on the Chevelle before startin' anything new."

Damn it, Dean forgot all about the cobalt blue Chevelle. He should have done a final check-up on the car after their paint-guy, Garth, finished the racing stripes on the bonnet two days ago. On the second try. Dean has no idea why Bobby keeps him on the payroll. "I'll be right on it after lunch," he promises.

"Idjit," Bobby grumbles just before the door falls shut.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, once the Cadillac is safely tucked away under a large cover, Dean walks down to the café on Main Street, stomach grumbling in anticipation. Yesterday's waitress recognizes him as he looks for a free spot and trips over her own feet when he winks at her. There's only one empty seat at a small round table left outside and it's less than perfect for watching the bookstore but Dean doesn't care. He's hungry and in serious need of some coffee. Thankfully, it doesn't take long for the waitress to appear at his table and he puts on his most charming smile before placing his order with her. She writes everything down dutifully but without looking at the paper in her hands.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Dean says, knowing fully well what he's doing to the girl- _Jamie_ , her nametag reads. She blushes prettily and skips off with her blond ponytail swinging merrily from side to side.

As he waits for his food, Dean's thoughts involuntarily find their way to the guy in the bookstore. He remembers the fondness with which he handled the books in such a stark contrast to the almost hostile way he treated Dean. It was odd yet intriguing. On a whim the mechanic decides to text his brother.

 **To** : Sam  
_2:25pm_  
Hey Sammy. You busy?

It takes a little while for his phone to buzz with an answering text but Dean doesn't mind. He just hopes he isn't distracting Sam too much even while he knows his class schedule and therefore that he isn't interrupting school. A moment later the entire table vibrates with Sam's reply which comes in two texts.

 **From** : Sam  
_2:32pm_  
Nope. What's up?

 _2:32pm_  
stop calling me Sammy

 

 **To** : Sam  
_2:33pm_  
Just on my lunch break. How's school, SAMMY?

 

 **From** : Sam  
_2:35pm_  
you're such a jerk

 _2:35pm_  
School's fine, Jo's doing better than me

 _2:36pm_  
tell me what's up for real, we talked about school 2 days ago

 

Dean snorts at how well his little brother knows him and he's kind of relieved that Jamie arrives with his lunch right then, giving him another moment to think about his answer. The waitress's smile falters once she notices the mechanic's attention isn't on her and she quickly disappears again, effectively putting an end to Dean's stalling.

 

 **To** : Sam  
_2:39pm_  
do you know an old book place on main st?

 _2:40pm_  
divine words or something

 

 **From** : Sam  
_2:41pm_  
never heard of it

 

 **To** : Sam  
_2:41pm_  
oh ok must be new then

Dean frowns at his phone screen. If Sam doesn't know the little shop it must mean that it only opened sometime after he and Jo left for college. That would explain why Dean never noticed it there before and now that he thinks about it he believes he faintly remembers a record store being in its place. Dean finishes the last bites of his bagel and grabs the napkin below the plate to wipe his fingers when his phone vibrates again only now the buzzing is accompanied by the first tunes of Back in Black.

 _Incoming call_  
**Sam**

Dean swipes his thumb over the green receiver and lifts the phone to his ear. "Couldn't stand not hearing my voice?"

Sam huffs and Dean swears there's some sort of eye-rolling going on. " _No_. I just want to know why you're randomly texting me about a bookstore in the middle of the day."

"C'mon, man. Am I not allowed to have a shallow conversation with my brother during my well-deserved lunch break? 'Sides. You're the one who kept sending me those weird pictures of animals wearing hats, how's that for random?"

His brother sighs heavily into the phone. "For the twentieth time, Dean, Jo had my- Wait. Don't change the subject!"

"Fine, alright," Dean gives in. A look at his watch reveals that he should probably head back to the garage and the Chevy Chevelle that's waiting so he drains the last of his coffee and fishes in his wallet for some dollar bills and a generous tip for Jamie who left her phone number on the receipt. He pockets the small slip of paper and pushes through the many tables until he's back on the sidewalk. Across the street a couple of people are lazily looking through the books outside _Divine Words_ but there's no trace of the owner so Dean aims himself toward the garage and pretends not to swallow down a lump of quiet disappointment.

"Dean, what about the bookstore?" The voice startles him to a halt before he remembers he's supposed to be talking to Sam.

"Right, sorry," he laughs uncomfortably. "It's nothing. I don't know why I brought it up, I was just bored." There's no answer and he knows Sam doesn't buy the excuse and is just waiting for the real story. "I noticed it for the first time yesterday and went to have a quick look. Thought you might've noticed a place like this."

"And?" Sam pushes.

The mechanic groans. "And _nothing_. It belongs to a weird dude who dresses like a tax accountant, has blue friggin' eyes and is immune to my unrivalled charm."

Sam replies with a somewhat distressed, "Uh oh."

" _What_?"

"It's a challenge," Sam explains as if the situation is clear. "You did your flirty-thing out of habit, the guy ignored you, and now instead of moving on like anyone else would do you're suddenly desperate to get his attention. Plus, awkward with blue eyes is totally your type."

Dean gets ready to defend his honour by telling his stupid brother that he doesn't _have_ a type and if he did it certainly wouldn't be _that_ when a trench-coated figure emerges from the bookstore and yeah, okay, Sam is totally onto something. He raises a hand in a wave before his brain can catch up and tell him how stupid he's got to look. The bookstore's owner doesn't wave back, of course he doesn't, and just glowers darkly before turning his attention to a potential customer, undoubtedly muttering the same phrase as he did yesterday when talking to Dean.

"Ugh, the guy's such an ass," Dean informs his brother, ignoring the flaming heat of embarrassment on his cheeks.

"Sure, I mean you've met an entire day ago I'm sure you know everything about him," Sam mocks.

"You know what? I'm done with this conversation. The guy's obviously straight as a post or has no taste, either way I ain't wastin' my time on him." If the determination in his voice is more for himself than Sam no one has to know.

"Yeah, keep telling that to yourself."

"I'm serious, dude. A hot waitress gave me her number, maybe I'll give _her_ a call later you don't know my life."

"Keep me updated on the bookstore guy."

"I'm hanging up now, I swear."

"Maybe he thinks you're an ass, too."

" _Goodbye_ , Sam." Dean actually does end the call, mumbling "Bitch" under his breath. A moment later his phone vibrates just before he pushes it back into his pocket.

 

 **From** : Sam  
_2:57pm_  
Jerk.

* * *

It isn't until Friday that Dean's resolve begins to crumble. Bobby told him to grab his shit and go home early and Dean just doesn't feel like spending the rest of a perfectly good day at home watching television. He can't pinpoint the exact moment he made the decision but soon enough he finds himself at the threshold of _Divine Words_. There's only one other person outside reading the blurb of a fantasy novel so Dean takes a deep breath and steps into the store. He doesn't know what he expected exactly but it certainly wasn't… this.

Inside the shop is a lot roomier than it seems from the outside which makes the fact that every single wall is plastered with bookshelves even more impressive. Additionally there's a couple of rows of solid wooden shelves put up to fill most of the room itself, the only exception being an area in the far left corner where two brown leather couches stand closely together. Dean won't admit it but he loves it. It's cozy and quiet, a tranquil oasis in the middle of the busiest street in town.

Slowly he begins to stroll around between the countless books curiously, not really reading the titles he isn't interested in but basking in the feeling of having this many stories around him. And the smell is something special, too. When they were younger, Dean made fun of Sam for being gross when his little brother would joyously inhale a whiff of the musty scent the old books in Bobby's office gave off but now that he's trying to give this whole store a chance he finds that he can appreciate it as well.

A voice from very close behind startles him out of his almost meditative state. "May I offer my assis- Oh, it's you again."

Dean jumps what feels like a foot in the air and spins around to find himself eye to eye with, well, very blue fucking eyes. He exhales shakily. "Dude, anyone ever tell you to get a bell?" The look he gets in return clearly asks which asylum he escaped from and Dean wants to explain what he meant by that when his brain suddenly catches up and he realizes that the guy _recognized_ him.

"Are you looking for anything in particular that I can help you with?" The guy asks and Dean thankfully remembers to not let himself be completely overwhelmed by just how wrecked the man's voice sounds.

"I, uh, no," he says, only wincing slightly at how retarded he sounds.

The guy blinks and turns around, probably to make another customer jump by randomly appearing. And Dean cannot let him just walk away with this dull impression of the mechanic.

"Hey!" he calls out to hold the other man back just a moment longer. "I don't know a whole lot about books but I know someone who'd love this place and I wanna tell them about it. Can I get your name, for future reference?" That wasn't smooth, per se, but hopefully it'll work out anyway. Dean waits a painful couple of seconds while enduring a calculative blue-eyed stare.

"Castiel Novak." The man nods once before turning again and disappearing into his store.

Dean is still smug as hell- and a little surprised, if he's perfectly honest- that he actually got a response when he continues to browse through the store. As he's told the guy, Castiel, he's got no knowledge about books. Not beyond what he copied from that one kid in English class all the way back in high school. Pre-dropout, that is. So at first he thinks it's just his own ignorance that makes the place seem so out of this world. But the longer he wanders through the aisles and the further back he gets, the more distinct becomes the feeling of something profound being harboured here, and Dean's not talking knowledge.

Before he can ponder on the subject any further he gets distracted by Castiel again. The man acts perfectly oblivious to Dean, who is still the only customer inside the store, and it takes the mechanic a moment to realize that he's hidden behind a metric fuckton of books and it's probably impossible to spot him. However, his vantage point gives him the perfect view of the stupidly handsome dude in a suit. (Did that rhyme? Dean's pretty sure that just rhymed.)

Like the first time he finds it intriguing how gently the man handles the leather-bound books as he moves them from a cardboard box into the last empty spots three shelves over. Dean has yet to crack the coding of the labels on the shelves- and no, it's not alphabetical order, thanks. Castiel seems lost in his work, completely submerged in his passion and Dean is again reminded of himself and the sheer awe with which he's ogled Balthazar's Cadillac back at the garage. He kind of loses track of time for a little while as he just stands there and watches the other man do his thing until he snaps out of it. If he really wants Castiel to notice him then staring at him from a hiding place behind a bookshelf like a creeper probably isn't the way to do it. He's Dean Winchester, for crying out loud. All he has to do is smile at someone and they're at his mercy, romantically. So naturally he walks up to Castiel with what he's been told is his panty-dropping smile. A classic.

Honestly believing it will gain him some serious plus points, Dean strolls up to the store owner's side and grabs a book from the box in a wordless offering of help. He's not prepared for the reaction, namely a furious glare that threatens to smite him on the spot should he make as much as a single wrong movement. "Just _what_ do you think you're doing?" Castiel hisses. What normal person freaking _hisses_?

Dean puts the book back and retreats a couple of small steps, the smile gone. "Whoa, sorry, buddy. I was just tryna' help."

Castiel frowns as he snatches up the book Dean put back and cradles it to his chest as if the mechanic defiled it with his filthy uneducated hands. The simple action stings more than he's willing to admit. "Did I seem in need of help to you?" Castiel asks as he shelves the book without looking back at the mechanic.

"No, but I just thought-"

He halfway expects the guy to swoosh around at lightning speed, pull out a blade from somewhere inside his too-big coat sleeve and hold it to Dean's throat. When instead Castiel turns his head slowly, deliberately, the movement is even scarier. Dean shivers. "You really do not know the slightest thing about literature, do you? About how rare these books are?"

"I- No." Dean's shoulders slump in defeat.

Castiel sighs and sends a look up as if asking God in Heaven for patience and strength just as one would before explaining to an overeager two-year-old why eating dirt may not be the best of ideas. He then pulls out the book he just placed on the shelf and takes a step toward Dean, showing him the item. It's a midnight blue hardcover with funky symbols on the front but there's no title. Amidst the intersecting circles are two letters, as Castiel points out by gently tapping them. "T.H." he says, "stands for Thomas Hardy. This is one of the only remaining copies of his story _Jude the Obscure_ published in the late 1800s. It's worth approximately $650."

Dean feels his mouth open slightly in shock. _Six-hundred-and-fifty bucks_. For a _book_. Before he can properly voice his outrage at the preposterous pricing, Castiel grabs another book from the box, stacking in atop the blue one already in his hands. It's a yellowed paperback and looks like something Dean would find in one of the crates in the attic of his childhood home. " _The Pea Pickers_ , by Eve Langley," Castiel explains. "A first edition from 1942. It took me _years_ to find it."

Dean nods in what he hopes is an appropriate gesture of interest. He's not entirely sure if Castiel is a genius for harbouring all this information or if he's one cracked sonofabitch. The book-version of a crazy cat lady, so to say. As if to confirm this suspicion, Castiel continues to grab the last couple of books from the almost empty box, rattling off information on authors and historical timelines until he begins to stagger under the weight of what he's holding. He introduces the very last book from the box, a blush colored paperback from the 50s titled _In Mortal Bondage._

Judging by the unimpressed look on Castiel's face, a cheekily muttered "Kinky" on Dean's part is not the right reaction and the mechanic quickly schools his features again before the little dude starts throwing punches. That would be a difficult thing to do, though, seeing as both his hands are occupied with holding literature. Castiel wobbles again, trying to keep his balance.

"Dude," Dean says, hands extended as if to aid but not daring to actually touch any of the items in the other man's arms. "Seriously, you sure you don't need any help?" He grins lopsidedly. "I washed my hands after lunch, I swear." He _didn't_ but it's not like Castiel knows that. And 'lunch' was only a granola bar, so it's not like he got sugar or grease all over his hands.

Castiel seems to ponder on the offer for a long moment filled with sceptical silence but he ends up sighing. "Fine. If you would be so kind as to take some books off the top?"

Dean almost laughs at the overly polite phrasing but manages to bite his tongue as he gingerly lifts the topmost four books, leaving Castiel to hold five more. The other man then proceeds to push them into the shelf, blindly holding out his hand afterwards in a request for Dean to hand over his share one book after another. Once everything is carefully stored Castiel visibly relaxes. Dean stays by his side and pretends to feel the same sense of achievement.

"See? All better now," he offers, breaking the silence.

Immediately Castiel goes rigid again. "Yes. Thank you."

It is at this moment that Dean realizes he never introduced himself. He holds out his hand. "I'm Dean, by the way."

Castiel gives his hand that look again, the one that isn't entirely sure the mechanic's skin isn't crawling with all sorts of germs, before shaking it curtly. It's a good handshake, solid and warm, but Dean is starting to get pissed. He's been really fucking kind to the guy so far, right? So why is he being such a dick? Maybe he just doesn't _get_ that Dean's trying his best to be flirtatious.

"Hey, uh, listen," he starts calmly, scraping all his 101 tricks together for one last attempt. "I'm off work for now and there's no one else in here. How 'bout the two of us go to grab a cup of coffee?"

Blue eyes go comically wide in response to that and Castiel bristles. "Excuse me?"

"You know? _Coffee_?" Dean actually adds a wink.

The other man tilts his head. "Either you are grossly propositioning me or actually offering to have a cup of coffee, which I do not drink. Whichever way it is, _Dean_ , I am not interested."

"Not interested?" Dean repeats dumbly. "Oh, c'mon, you don't know what you're missing."

"Not much, I believe," Castiel says coolly as he eyes Dean up and down. The mechanic sputters.

"What? Dude, I just spent an _hour_ listening to you ramble about books. Books! Don't you think I deserve some credit for that?"

Castiel gets that dangerous glint in his eyes again and Dean instinctively shrinks back from it. "You do realize this is a _bookstore_ ," he says. Dean wants to answer but Castiel just keeps talking. "Now, either you buy something or I'll have to ask you to leave. I do not depend on your money so desperately as to put up with another minute of your rudeness."

"Rudeness?" Dean realizes he keeps repeating things Castiel says in a louder voice but he doesn't care right now. "I'm sorry I thought you were up for some no-strings-attached fun, my bad. But lemme just tell you that a lot of people would be happy to trade places with you."

The door to the shop swings open with a creaking sound and Pamela Barns steps inside as if she's heard her cue from all the way across town. The woman totally has the hots for Dean. "Hey, Pam," he calls out to her. "You'd have coffee with me, right?"

Pamela takes off her sunglasses and ogles Dean shamelessly. "Oh of course, honey. But why not skip straight to the fun part?"

Next to him Castiel rolls his eyes dramatically and walks away. Just like the first time they talked.

Progress: 0%

**...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole scene ridiculously reminds him of Life of Brian.

Saturday passes uneventfully except for an hour-long Skype session with Jo, who laughs her ass off when Dean tells her about his failure to woo the 'asshole from the bookstore' Sam told her about, the traitor. At the end of the call she admits that she is impressed, having once fallen for the Dean Winchester charm as well, and Castiel deserves some kudos. Which is college-talk for… well, something.

Dean stays in bed the entire day, doing nothing other than texting Charlie and Sam and watching the episode of Dr Sexy he missed online. The new nurse in charge is totally making eyes at one of the orderlies, even after sleeping with one of her patients the night before and telling him it _meant something_. Dean is scandalized. And turned on. This show is a flippin' rollercoaster, man.

Once the episode is finished he decides to re-watch the previous season. One episode merges into another, characters are introduced, killed off, revealed to be long-lost siblings and would you look at that it's 8pm already.

Dean stares at the time in the bottom right corner of his laptop screen. He can't remember the last time he spent an entire day watching Dr Sexy. Usually he only does it after getting dumped but-

Oh.

The mechanic glowers at his desktop wallpaper- a photo of him and Sam at Sam's graduation party- for another moment before closing the laptop and pushing it off his lap. If he sulks any more he's sure he'll turn into a thirteen-year-old girl so instead of moodily not-thinking about blue eyes he decides to go out and hit the clubs.

Well, _club_.

The night's still young and maybe, just _maybe_ , Castiel has the same idea and is the drunk-hook-up type. Okay, so Dean knows that's unlikely but the idea still serves as motivation for a quick shower before he grabs his one clean pair of jeans and the black t-shirt that's a little tight around his biceps out of his closet. And just like that he doesn't look like he's been moping around in his bed for way too many hours anymore, Dean thinks as he checks himself out in the mirror above the bathroom sink.

Half an hour later finds him rounding the corner to Purgatory. No affiliation with the one in Miami; the name's just a really awkward coincidence. There's a small crowd outside but they seem to be just talking so Dean pushes past them and walks down the couple of steps to the entrance below street-level. Inside the walls vibrate with the heavy bass of the song that's playing.

Dean threads through the mass of people inside, involuntarily on the lookout for messy dark hair that he would really like to run his fingers through. He groans as he reaches the bar and smacks his head onto the sticky surface. He's been watching way too much Dr Sexy.

A moment later a shot is placed in front of him and Dean blinks up at Benny, the owner of the bar. He knows Dean well enough to see that something's up and grins sympathetically. Like all other barkeepers, the guy deserves a degree in psychology. "I don't know what's got you all blue and poutin', brother," he drawls, "but that bird over there's been eyein' you since the moment you stepped inside, if you're interested."

Dean follows the admirably discreet sideways nod Benny gives him to a redhead who looks like she wants to eat him alive, and not in the sexy way. His first instinct is _Poughkeepsie_ , which is code for drop everything and run, courtesy of Sam after a very unfortunate fling with a chick called Ruby. He should have Poughkeepsie'd out of that one way earlier. But now the redhead winks at him and lasciviously sucks at the straw of her almost empty longdrink and Dean forgets everything about code words. He came here to get over the first rejection that actually got to him, so he might as well do that with the help of that girl.

She doesn't look so scary up close, he thinks upon approaching her. "Can I get you another?"

"Are you Dean Winchester?"

He almost loses the easy smile on his face because how in the hell does she know his name? "Who's askin'?" he responds smoothly, ignoring the uneasy feeling.

"Well, everyone's talking, saying he's the most eligible bachelor in Kansas. I just thought you fit the description." She leers at him, licking her red lips.

Dean laughs. "Funny you'd say that. I met someone who'd very strongly disagree."

The redhead raises her eyebrows. "Really? She sounds like a bitch."

"Yeah… he's a prick." Normally he doesn't go around boasting about being an equal opportunity kind of guy but he doesn't like lying either.

"He? _Interesting_ … " Her hand wanders from the bar up Dean's chest before fisting in the material of his tee so she can pull herself closer to whisper in his ear. "I'll make you forget him. He doesn't know what he's missing."

 _Thank you_ , Dean wants to say, _that's exactly what I said_.

Instead, he asks what her name is.

Red lips curl into a smirk.

"Call me Meg."

* * *

On Monday morning Dean arrives at Singer's R&R right on time, a very rare occurrence. Dean loves his job but on Mondays he loves sleep just a little more. He can't remember much from Saturday night, or the following Sunday, which is weird. He knows he didn't drink too much. He also knows Benny would never spike his drinks and Meg, as far as he _does_ remember, was pretty busy doing other things, so she couldn't have slipped him anything either.

Fuck, he doesn't even know if he took her home or not. Or how far they went. Or if he promised to call, which he always does. Promise, that is. He never actually ends up calling. He doesn't think he ever had that bad of a memory lapse after a night out, which is even odder considering he's feeling pretty good. No headache, nausea or other signs of the hangover of a lifetime that should accompany a memory loss of such proportions.

In the garage everything looks like it did when he left at noon on Friday, which is somewhat calming. He enjoys the peace and quiet of the morning as he puts on his greasy work outfit but the feeling doesn't last long because the next moment Garth swaggers through the door, dragging the white overall and mask he wears during his paint jobs behind him. "Dean-o!" he yells jubilantly.

"Mornin' Garth," he mumbles like he does every Monday but something's just off this time. Usually the scrawny guy retorts with some utterance that wouldn't even make sense if Dean tried to understand it but now he just stares at Dean like he holds the answers to all the crises in the world.

"Is that jumpsuit new?"

Dean blinks in confusion as he stares down the very obviously old suit, with all its holes and stains and general dishevelment. "Uh… no?" he offers.

Garth beams at him. "It still looks uh-mazing on you, my friend."

Is Dean supposed to say thank you? He furrows his brow. "I'll… be… somewhere else," he says while slowly retreating backwards, out of the garage. Garth once told him it only took one beer to get him drunk and knowing the guy he might have literally forgotten that fact and emptied a bottle for breakfast.

On his way to Bobby's office he notices a couple of girls waving at him and raises a hand in a greeting back, which seems to excite them beyond reason because their squeals are ear piercing even from a safe distance. He briefly considers the possibility that they're not waving at him and that he's being followed by One Direction or something of similar nature but a quick glance behind him proves that there is no boyband in sight and the still excitedly hopping girls are indeed this close to hyperventilating because of _him_. It's one thing for Garth to act like a lunatic but to have the tumult of those girls on top of it is more than a little unnerving.

Dean is glad when he finds Bobby's door unlocked and quickly disappears inside without knocking. "The hell is going on out there?" he asks irritatedly, hoping his level-headed boss can come up with some sort of explanation.

In retrospect he wishes he'd stayed with Garth.

"Dean!" Bobby yells and it sounds… happy? Yeah, no. That's impossible. Bobby Singer doesn't _do_ cheerful and friendly. He shows his appreciation through less insults than he'd fling at you on a normal day, if you're lucky enough. "So good to see ya, boy. How'd ya sleep, y'look real rested!"

Dean's frown deepens. "Is this a joke?"

"No, 'course not. Why, is something the matter?"

 _You mean_ except _everyone acting eight kinds of wrong_? Dean is tempted to holler, but he keeps quiet and grits his teeth. This ought to be some kind of prank. It's a small town, people get bored. The question that remains is how on earth they got Bobby to play along so enthusiastically.

"You know what, it's too early for this shit," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll go get some work done while avoiding Garth. You tell whoever put you up to this that it's not friggin' funny, got it?"

"You seem a bit agitated," Bobby observes, leaning back in his chair. Dean wants to throw something. Badly.

"This isn't fucking happening," he mutters.

"You know what!" Bobby jumps up in a display of agility Dean's never seen from the man. "How 'bout you take the day off? Hell, take the entire week! You've earned it!"

For a long stretch of time Dean says nothing. He attempts to a couple of times but he only ends up inhaling and then opening and closing his mouth uselessly because that offer goes beyond anything Bobby would do for a coupla' laughs. Something is seriously fucking wrong, and there has to be some downside to this… friendliness.

But who was Dean to look a gift horse in the mouth?

"Fine," he says. He can find out who the joker behind this whole scheme is from the safety of his own house or the little café on Main Street. And it's not like he's doing something wrong by leaving. Bobby, his _boss_ , offered the timeout. "I'll be back Monday."

"Yes, yes," Bobby agrees eagerly. "Take all the time you need. Oh! I could give ya a raise!"

Dean shakes his head because it's one thing to go on paid leave for no reason but another entirely to accept extra money he neither needs nor deserves "S'alright, Bobby."

"You're my best employee, boy," the older man praises. "It's great workin' with ya."

"Yeah," Dean says sceptically. "Back atcha'."

Bobby smiles- wrinkles around the eyes and all.

Dean doesn't like it.

* * *

Whoever's trying to creep Dean the fuck out is doing an impressive job. It seems like _everyone_ is in on the joke, with people greeting him left and right. Some just wave like the girls back at the R &R did, others want to shake his hand, and some just follow him like a litter of lost puppies. Guys, girls, young, old- there's no pattern to it and the mechanic doesn't get how this prank-flashmob is even possible.

His first guess was social media. He doesn't have a profile anywhere (except on that one dating site he regrets signing up for) so it would have been easy to plan something without him noticing, but here's just _no way_ Missouri Moseley, who keeps a tiny flower shop not far from the town center, could have been informed via the worldwide web. As far as she's concerned that's an international weaving club. But currently she's still making the same googly eyes at him as everyone else.

So Dean needs to come up with another idea. Or quite possibly bribe someone to spill the beans on who is behind all this madness. That actually sounds like a pretty solid idea. He scans the ever growing crowd around him for the most distrustful looking face he can find and promptly settles on a guy in a neatly tailored suit that looks like a politician. On closer inspection… it _is_. Dean shakes his head disbelievingly because that right there is Richard Roman. Well, at least he's known to have done some jail time for embezzlement so the bribing should work. As he pulls out his wallet and looks through the bills in there he thinks that he maybe should have accepted that raise Bobby offered. For now he'll have to see how far his buddy Ulysses S. Grant will get him.

"Mr Roman, is it?" Dean opens the conversation.

The guy honest-to-God looks over his own shoulder in confusion. "Are you talking to _me_?"

"Guess so." Dean is growing more annoyed by the second. What would a guy like Roman get out of a prank like this? The mechanic suppresses an eye-roll and not-so-subtly waggles his $50 bill. "Who's behind this clown-show?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about, Dean Winchester," the man says. And you see, here's the thing; He sounded genuine. Dean knows the sleazebag from TV and not in one interview has he uttered a single honest sentence but that just now? That's sincerity if Dean's ever seen it. The guy doesn't even seem to consider grabbing the money. Instead he gets out his own wallet, pulls out his _own_ fifty bucks and freakin' _hands it over_ with an enthusiastic, "Here, take mine too."

Dean, dumbstruck, has no chance to decline when the little rectangular dollar bill changes hands. He stares at it, then at the politician and utters, "Thanks, Mr Roman," dutifully.

Richard Roman beams at him. "Please. Call me Dick."

Before Dean can think too closely about how seriously fucking wrong that sounded he's pushed away from the guy who just waves happily after the mechanic until there's too many people between them to see him anymore. During the few minutes off conversing with Dick the number of people on the streets has likely doubled. Dean hears faint 'I love you's screamed his way, together with a lot of other encouragement.

_You're great, Dean!_

_Keep it up, son!_

A girl that can't be a day older than sixteen flings herself in his way and pushes a little notebook in his face. "Sign this for me, please?" He wants to say that he doesn't have a pen but a man helpfully supplies him with one and he just scribbles down a shaky signature in the hopes that this will all go away if he does. It doesn't. If anything, it gets worse.

_Please sign my t-shirt, Dean!_

_Please kiss my sick grandmother, Dean!_

_Please accept my firstborn son as a sacrifice, Dean!_

(Okay, so that last one may be an exaggeration, but Dean is certain that the crowd's requests are headed in that direction, it's only a matter of time.)

He ignores the yelling as best as he can and just walks across the main plaza that also serves as the beginning point for Main Street. The sea of people grows and grows and while he doesn't complain so much about the attractive girls groping him wherever he steps, the middle-aged to… advanced aged people are really starting to scare the shit out of him. People he's never seen in his life confess their deep admiration for his work, his personality, his manners.

Dean shrugs every ridiculous explanation he has off and is just about to head toward the café when a guy about Dean's age snatches the greasy rug from the side pocket of his overall and triumphantly holds it in the air after more than an hour of excited cheering from the crowd. Dean is by now close to a mental breakdown and wants nothing more than to go home, curl up on his couch and hope this is all just the result of a really bad accidental acid trip.

It's still Sunday; None of this is real; If he flings himself off a building he'll probably fly.

Dean doesn't test that last theory and instead prepares himself for a very long, very loud walk home.

* * *

When Dean reluctantly rolls out of bed the next morning it's Tuesday, which kind of sucks because it means that yesterday actually happened. He brushes his teeth a lot longer than necessary, takes a long time to decide on which plaid flannel to wear over his grey tee and merrily pretends he doesn't hear the people outside. It's like that one time when Jo burst an empty lunch bag right next to his left ear and he ended up with a pretty annoying case of tinnitus for half the summer holidays, he got pretty adept at ignoring that too.

There's only so much one can do to ignore an entire town right outside a window, Dean realizes after turning up the volume of his favourite Motörhead album until his speakers threaten to explode under the music's assault. He tries to picture the lyrics, sings along at the top of his lungs, but to no avail. The people outside are much louder than any band in Dean's collection. He needs to battle the source of the problem, not the consequences. Only he doesn't know how to do that without _knowing_ the source.

Dean sighs and trots over to the biggest window of his living room, the one that should be facing the majority of the people. As he opens the curtains he feels to equal parts like laughing and crying because this is just plain ridiculous. Everyone's still right where he left them the previous day and once they spot him all hell breaks loose as the entire crowd erupts into even louder cheers. The whole scene ridiculously reminds him of _Life of Brian_ and because he's an ass he rolls with the joke and yells, "You don't need to follow me. You don't need to follow anybody. You've got to think for yourselves. You're all individuals!" He half-expects a chorus answer back, just like in the movie, but instead he gets whistling and he thinks he sees a girl break into tears because _that was so inspirational, Dean_.

He now gets what Sam means when he says Dean isn't half as funny as he thinks he is.

Okay. Okay, Dean really needs to calm down and get a hold on what's happening. A part of him still believes in the prank-theory but the entire ordeal has gotten a bit too elaborate for that so he needs to come up with another reason why the entire friggin' town worships him.

Oh, but maybe that's the point. It's _just_ the town. Maybe there was some chemical explosion and the toxics got in the drinking water and now all the people have gone cuckoo and are hallucinating that Dean is the best dude ever. It could have been anyone, it's just a coincidence that it turned out to be him. He should inform Greenpeace or the White House if that's the case. Probably both. Dean suddenly feels a little lighter and is once again glad that he only drinks beer or bottled water that doesn't seem to be affected. In order to confirm the idea he just needs to call Sam or Jo in California.

At the moment it's simply too fucking loud for a phone call so Dean decides to sneak out back and take the Impala for a drive out of town, he can call Sam from the road. The plan seems great in theory but Dean's hopes are crushed when he quietly walks out into his backyard just to see the same picture as out front; a whole lot of people. Shit.

Dean pats his pocket for his keys and phone, knowing that he can't possibly make it to the car and even if he did, he couldn't drive off through a crowd like this without hurting anybody. That leaves him with two options: Flee on foot or call 911. Neither sounds very promising especially seeing as the local sheriff is part of the gathering outside his house.

The mechanic feels trapped and holds onto his phone like he would to a lifeline. A moment later the proverbial lifeline is snatched from him and someone excitedly exclaims "I have Dean Winchester's phone!" The crowd goes mad. Dean doesn't know how these people went from willingly giving him money to stealing his possessions out of his hands, all he does know is that he now stands amidst a very large and potentially dangerous group of people and has no means to contact anyone he trusts.

Frozen to the spot, Dean wrecks his brain for an escape route or any plan to get out of this. The facts are that everybody worships him, for whatever reason, and every single person in front of him wants to either be his best friend or date him. Maybe Dean's going insane himself but the solution seems simple.

Who would never want to do any of these things, even under the influence of hallucination-inducing toxic water?

That's right.

Castiel-Fucking-Novak.

**...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe his actions have ruined any chance of ever hooking up with the guy, but that doesn't mean they can't form some sort of dysfunctional friendship, right?

It takes him almost two hours to get from his doorstep to _Divine Words_ and when he arrives he's covered in lipstick stains and confetti and absolutely drenched in sweat, probably looking like he comes straight from a carnival party in Cologne. With the last strength he can conjure before seriously punching someone in the face he pushes through the door and immediately shoves it shut again, pushing every bolt and lock he can find into place and then placing a chair below the handle like he always sees movie actors do.

Apparently Castiel thinks everybody is a nuisance because even before he can identify the intruder as Dean he makes a disapproving sound. Then his eyes widen.

"Do you want to date me?" Dean bursts out desperately.

Castiel rolls his eyes so hard it's quite likely he's breaking national records. "Dean, we've been over this, I'm not-"

"Interested!" Dean finishes for him before he darts across the room and pulls the poor guy into a bone-crushing hug. "Yes, thank God!"

The contact only lasts a moment before Castiel pushes him off. "What is going on with you?" he asks. "And why is what looks like the entire population of the immediate area outside my store?"

"I'll explain in a minute," Dean promises, "But first- do you have a phone I can use?"

Castiel nods solemnly and disappears behind one shelf for a moment just to come out from behind another with a flip-phone. At the sight of the device Dean mourns his mobile for a second before taking the offered phone with a quiet "Thank you."

It takes Sam a long time to answer and Dean remembers that he's probably in class. Usually he would hang up now but this time he's just too freaked. Thankfully Sam seems to be unable to ignore any phone call, so he is greeted with his brother's voice one agonizingly long moment later.

"Winchester?"

Dean just sighs with relief at the fact that Sam sounds perfectly sane. "Sammy."

"Dean?" Sam makes a surprised sound. "Whose phone are you using? It didn't show your number."

"It's, uh, Castiel Novak's," Dean explains curtly, already blushing with a sense of foreboding. There's no way he told Sam about a bookstore and its asshole owner without his geeky brother looking it up online. And there definitely _is_ a website to look up. Of which Dean only knows by sheer coincidence of course.

"The guy from the bookstore?" Sam excitedly confirms his suspicions. "So you got him to talk to you after all?"

"Yeah," Dean replies vaguely, well aware that _the guy from the bookstore_ is listening to his side of the conversation.

"I told you," Sam boasts. "I knew you couldn't resist a challenge."

"That's why you're the family genius and not me," Dean allows.

"Is there a reason you're calling other than bragging about your conquests?" Originally he planned to tell Sam everything and ask for advice on the situation but now that he's actually sort of confirmed his admittedly still pretty crazy theory he feels balanced again. There's no need to drag his brother into this thing.

"No, Sam. Just thought you'd like to know. Sorry if I made you skip class or somethin'."

Sam, bless him, just chuckles. "Nah, it's cool. The professor cancelled on us. I was just studying."

"Of course you were, nerd," Dean teases fondly, picturing Sam with an enormous book on the desk in front of him and having the fun of a lifetime while reading through the pages.

Sam only adds to the mental image. "Okay, if that's all you need I'll get back to Civil Law: Volumes V-VII. Bye, Dean."

"Bye," Dean parrots, before stopping his brother just before he can hang up. "Wait. Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you," he says.

There's a short silence on the other end. "You sure you're okay? You're not dying, are you?"

"No, Sam," Dean says with an eye-roll that doesn't even come close to Castiel's from earlier. "I'm not dying." At least he hopes he isn't.

"Okay. Good." Sam sounds reassured. "Love you too."

And he hangs up.

Dean stares at the small display for a long moment before heaving a sigh and flipping the device shut, holding it out to its original owner whose eyes don't leave him as he accepts the item. He sniffs, rubs his nose and clears his throat while searching for what to say exactly. Ultimately, he decides that Castiel already thinks that he's full of shit so he might as well get it over with.

"So," he starts awkwardly, "You're probably wondering why I'm here."

Castiel briefly looks at his phone before pocketing it and folds his arms over his chest. "Indeed I am."

"This is gonna sound crazy as hell but you gotta believe me. I promise I'm sober, though I really wish I wasn't at this point, and I know you probably don't give a shit after- well, I know you don't give a shit. Just… hear me out, I didn't know where else to go, I swear-"

"Dean," Castiel interrupts. "You're rambling."

"Sorry," Dean says as he runs a nervous hand through his short hair. A couple of confetti flakes fall to the floor. "I'm sorry, it's- this shit's messed up."

For a moment Castiel just stands there and looks at Dean as if to see whether or not he is being serious. "Obviously you're upset. Maybe we should sit down and you can elaborate on the shit that is supposedly messed up, as you phrased it."

"Yeah, sitting sounds great right about now. Jesus." Dean follows Castiel through the shelves until they reach the couches in the back. The other man motions for him to sit and Dean does, expecting Castiel to do the same. He's surprised when Castiel instead stares down at him intently.

"Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

Dean pulls a face. "Think I'll pass, thanks."

"Very well," Castiel murmurs in that gravelly voice of his and finally does sit down on the far end of the couch Dean isn't sitting on, consciously putting as much space as possible between the two of them. It takes a couple of minutes of Castiel looking expectantly at Dean before the mechanic realizes he is the one supposed to be speaking.

"I know it sounds like I'm insane- but literally everyone in this fucking town treats me like I'm Bieber all of a sudden. I don't know why. At first it was just weird and I thought it was a prank or whatever but it friggin' escalated and now look the fuck outside! I can't take a step without every single person around following me claiming they love me."

Castiel's eyebrows shoot up but he looks amused. "Oh do they now? One would think you were used to that…"

"What?" Dean asks dumbly.

The bookstore owner shrugs and leans back into the small decorative pillow in the corner of the couch he is occupying. "I thought everyone already loved you. Seeing as so many people would trade places with my humble self in an instant just to bask in your glorious presence."

Dean winces as he realizes what the other man is not so subtly hinting at. He really is a dick when Sam and Jo aren't around and he doesn't even realize it until it's way too late. The mechanic swallows hard and suddenly it's impossible to meet Castiel's too blue eyes without a pang of regret. "I- I might not have made a very good first impression."

"If it helps, the second impression was in no way improved."

"Why would that help?" Dean asks in exasperation before lowering his voice again. "Anyway. Those people? They aren't satisfied with just, y'know, hangin' around. They want to touch and they're getting violent, man."

Suddenly the amusement vanishes from Castiel's face, leaving a frown. "Violent?"

"Well, yeah. They're occupying my house, they stole my phone and friggin' look at me! They'd have ripped my clothes off if I hadn't managed to reach your place."

"I'm sure it isn't as bad as you make it out to be."

"No? I'd say I'll go out there and show you but I don't think I'm ready to face those freaks yet-"

As if to emphasize Dean's words something thumps loudly against the storefront and the mechanic suspects strongly that the crowd outside is close to completely losing it. Castiel flinches at the noise and uselessly turns his head toward it even though the bookshelves block the direct view of the window. Dean bites back the _'I told you so'_. Better not antagonize the only ally he has right now.

Castiel shoots a couple of nervous glances between Dean and the general direction the noise came from before apparently making the decision to go and investigate the increasing noise. He doesn't say anything, just gets up smoothly and vanishes between the shelves like that Pan-thing from the Labyrinth movie Sam made him watch for historical reasons, the freak. Dean hears the shop door being unlocked and opened, then flinches at the sheer loudness of the crowd outside. It's impossible for him to determine what happens next but he guesses since it's him they want and not some nerdy bookseller they won't harm the guy.

After a couple of minutes Dean grows somewhat restless. He still hears his name being yelled- though it seems like there's less of a tumult for whatever reason, and Castiel hasn't come back yet. He's still too freaked-out to go and have a look for himself. Instead, he looks at the dog-eared paperbacks stacked on the little round table at his knee and grabs the one on top. _CAT'S CRADLE, a novel by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.,_ the title reads.

Dean frowns. He wasn't raised in a barn, of course he's heard of the author, maybe even that specific book. Hell, maybe he even handed in a fake report on it back in high school. Either way, somehow he feels the odd compulsion to turn it over and actually read what the blurb has to offer. If only to calm his still somewhat racing heart. Surprisingly enough he finds himself slightly intrigued by the short summary. A brief look at the room tells him that he is still very much on his own- which is refreshing after the past two days- and so he decides that, well, surely it can't possibly hurt to read the first couple of pages. Doesn't mean he's going to make a habit out of it or anything, Jesus.

To be reading out of his own free will is odd, to say the least, and Dean is more than a little shocked at how hard he finds it to concentrate on the task at first. He's a grown, friggin' man who's not necessarily stupid and he's having reading difficulties? Please. That's just pathetic. He turns page after page, soaking up the words with determination and- and it really doesn't suck. The story's weird, yeah, but so is anime and he digs that shit.

Dean's head shoots up mid-sentence when someone clears their throat loudly and he drops the book on the floor in his surprise. Castiel is back, looming in the shadows of one of the heavy shelves dividing the room and glaring darkly. Dean shudders at the sight, the hairs on his arms standing up. _Dude's creepy as hell when he does_ that, he thinks.

"Dean," Castiel says darkly, making the name alone sound like a threat, "follow me, please." The politeness is obviously forced and Dean swallows to suppress another, more obvious shudder. Without thinking he stands just as Castiel pushes off the shelf and turns to take a step toward the store's front.

"No, dude," Dean shakes his head even though the other man can't see him with his back turned. "Don't make me go out there. You can't be that cruel."

A humourless huff of laughter escapes Castiel as he spins around, strides over and comes to a halt barely two inches away from Dean. "Cruel?" he growls. "Perhaps you should listen for a moment before throwing such accusations at me."

Dean stands perfectly still, breathing as ragged as Castiel's suddenly is, and _listens_. He hears nothing. His eyes widen. _He hears nothing_. "What'd you do?" he asks I awe.

The bookseller retreats a couple of steps to allow them both some space. He shrugs. "I convinced them you'd gone out the back, even went around the building with some to point out the direction you supposedly disappeared into."

Dean tries to ignore the very real urge to hug the guy again. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it."

Again, Castiel glares darkly. "I didn't do it for you, I did it for the safety of my books."

"Dude, wha-" The question stays unfinished as Castiel grabs Dean by the collar of his tee and drags him through the entire room until they stand side by side at the open door, facing utter devastation. There's a crack in the wooden part of the door, one of the carts outside is overturned and the street looks like an abandoned festival area after a rock concert with the trash the massive crowd left behind covering the street. Wait. Dean takes a cautious step forward and catches one of the stray papers the wind drags along the concrete like tumbleweeds. He squints at the crumpled page in his hands, realizing it's a page out of a book. Grabbing another, and one more after that it dawns on him what must have happened. "Cas, are these…?"

"My books, yes." The voice coming from beside him has lost its venom, in its place a tone of defeat.

"I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- fuck." Dean drags his hands through his hair, barely noticing the way the strands stick together with whatever crap those loons threw at him during their pursuit. "I'll leave, man. I'm sorry. I don't know what's fucking happening." He takes half a step before a strong hand on his shoulder stops him.

"No." The bookseller shakes his head once. "I told them you had gone home, so I'm guessing your house is probably not a good place to go to at this point," he shrugs unapologetically, his words in no way calming, merely informative. At his next words the man's eyes soften, though the hard lines around them remain. "I am also not so _cruel_ as to send you away after witnessing the mass hysteria about your person. You can stay here but I do have to ask something of you, a condition if you will."

"Anything," Dean blurts out, meaning it with all his heart. He doesn't think he's ever been more thankful in his entire life, including the day Bobby offered him the job at the R&R.

"Help me record the damage and repair what's been broken today." Castiel says in what Dean thinks may be his business-voice.

"Sure thing, man." Dean can do that. It doesn't sound like a hard task.

* * *

Hard isn't the word, no. _Fucking impossible_ captures the essence of what Dean's feeling far more accurately by the time the streetlights provide the only luminance of the otherwise pitch black town. He and Castiel have spent literal hours on picking up paper and categorizing every single page, which in itself would have been agonizing enough. On top of it, however, Castiel keeps insisting that he's doing things wrong, regardless of the task. Up until this day Dean didn't even know there was a _wrong_ way to pick up scattered book pages but apparently he found one if he is to believe Castiel.

Just as he is about to complain he feels a hand on his shoulder in a touch that is quickly becoming a familiar one. The bookseller seems fond of the gesture and it's oddly calming every time he initiates the simple contact. "It's late," he says, the gravelly nature of his voice as hushed as the quiet of the night. "What we haven't saved until now is beyond recovery."

Dean hangs his head for a moment, sending a silent prayer of thanks to whichever God is listening. Then he straightens himself up and forces his legs, aching from hours of chasing paper-tumbleweeds, to stretch from his current crouch into a standing position. "What's for dinner?" he asks jokingly as he hefts up a couple of folders newly filled with notes and numbers without being prompted to do so.

Castiel stares owlishly for a moment before catching onto the playful nature of the statement. "Grilled cheese? Since eating elsewhere is out of the question," he replies dryly, though Dean suspects hearing a hint of joviality somewhere in the words.

"Awesome," the mechanic says with a grin as he leads the way back inside. A moment later his expression falters and he stops abruptly enough to cause Castiel to bump roughly into him, almost sending the carefully- albeit to a part also _wrongly_ \- categorized files flying again. "Wait, where are we gonna cook grilled cheese in here?"

The bookseller pushes past him, somehow managing to balance what he's holding while locking the shop's door and manually closing the blinds for the night. "In my kitchen," he explains. The _duh_ is implied.

"You got a kitchen in your bookstore? That's… useful, I guess," Dean chatters as he follows the other man through the store to stash away their day's work in a lonely corner for the time being. "Isn't it a fire-hazard, though?"

"It certainly would be, yes. However, seeing as aforementioned kitchen is to be found _in my apartment_ which is located _above_ the store I have not yet had to worry about fire posing imminent danger to my books." Castiel sends a smug look over his shoulder, a distant smile tugging at his perpetual frown.

Dean flushes with embarrassment. He doesn't add anything further to the conversation and opts to just follow Castiel around without making a fool of himself for a change- because that seems to work out so exceptionally well. The other man leads the way to a dark green safety door that should have caught Dean's attention way sooner. It squeaks and groans but Castiel pushes it open with ease after unlocking it. Once open, it reveals what looks like a recently renovated staircase leading up to yet another door. Dean hesitates at the gloomy darkness in the passage until Castiel flips a switch and a lonely neon light flickers to life. Another flip sends the store behind the pair into darkness and Castiel motions for Dean to lead the way upstairs, claiming the door should be unlocked.

The light gives Castiel's complexion an eerie paleness but it doesn't distract from his well-defined facial features. Dean might stare a moment too long before getting a grip and climbing the staircase. He hears the safety door drag back into its place and is very aware of another pair of steps sounding behind him but doesn't turn and wait on the bookseller, suddenly childishly curious about how a man like him lives.

Of course Castiel surprises him once more. The walls in the small outer room that's behind the second door are bare except for simple black shelves like the ones you get cheaply at IKEA, and when he walks further into the apartment he finds himself in a living room that holds a massive grey sofa in its center. On a low chest of drawers rests a moderately sized flatscreen TV, which Dean finds surprising for some reason, and most of the room left free by the sofa is blocked by moving cartons. The walls are painted an almost minty shade of blue, giving the room a cool feel to it to which the Spartan decoration only adds. If you could call books decoration at all, that is. At least those particular items prove that this is actually Castiel Novak's apartment. Dean honestly expected to find similar furniture as the dark and heavy pieces down in the shop. Things that are alive with decades, maybe centuries of history, instead of the lifeless, almost sterile run-for-the-mill equipment assembled here. Dean shies away from the thought, but he might have spent one too many nights watching those dumb-as-shit interior design shows lately.

"I haven't had the motivation to unpack everything yet," Castiel says in explanation, vaguely motioning toward the boxes. "Is it alright for you to sleep on the couch?" He stops in the middle of the room to regard Dean with a neutral expression.

"Hey, I'd be happy to sleep on the floor at this point," Dean answers honestly. His reply seems to be unexpected because it does something funny to Castiel's face. Like he doesn't want to react to Dean's words but still can't keep his expression in check completely.

"Don't be ridiculous," the other man says dismissively. "I'll see to find some spare blankets and I imagine you'll need a towel and something to wear as well."

The words don't register straight away and Dean wants to protest until he realizes that he is still dishevelled from his confrontation with the fan-club he never wanted but suddenly has. Things he automatically blocked out until now he's suddenly very aware of, like the way his t-shirt is uncomfortably stiff with dried sweat and clinging to him, or how his scalp itches with all the stuff matting his hair. Yeah, a shower is definitely in order.

A moment later Castiel enters his vision once more, carrying a load of neatly folded bedsheets and a blush pink towel. Dean hurries over to take the items from the other man with a polite little smile and sincere thanks. The sheets he drops onto the couch for later use but the towel stays in his hands. It's fluffy and clean and Dean can honestly say he can't wait to be wrapped up in it once he himself is clean as well, regardless of the girly colour. "Your girlfriend's?" he asks in mindless cheekiness, holding the item up slightly higher for emphasis.

Castiel's blush is almost imperceptible but his eyes widen noticeably. "Ah, no. No, I'm afraid I was just careless on laundry day." He blushes further but that strange little hint of a smile makes another appearance as well as he adds, "It used to be white."

Somehow the timid honesty makes Dean laugh and he takes a couple of steps toward Castiel to pat him on the shoulder like he would an old friend, squeezing briefly before letting go again. "Happens to the best of us."

The bookseller joins Dean's breezy laughter with a breathy chuckle of his own in agreement before nodding his head in the opposite direction than he came from when carrying the sheets in. "The bathroom is behind that door over there, hopefully you will find everything you need."

Dean murmurs another _thank you_ and grabs the towel a little tighter before heading into the room that's been pointed out to him. The bathroom is small and lacks personality as all other rooms do in the apartment so far but as long as there is hot water Dean is easy to please. On the vanity he finds a stack of clothes that are probably intended for him and for a millisecond Dean feels an odd tug somewhere in his chest at the gesture. He shrugs the feeling off and instead begins to strip out of his clothes, tossing everything into the corner behind the door. Not a minute later he finds himself relaxing under the assault of an almost too-hot stream of water, rolling his shoulders and biting back a small groan of pleasure. He can literally feel the grime and worries of the day being washed off him and disappearing down the shower drain and it's absolutely glorious.

But as wonderful as standing under the ever-falling droplets of water is, Dean isn't one to take showers that last forever- unlike his little brother but considering the sheer amount of hair to wash the mechanic supposes it's no wonder the little princess always takes so long. He turns off the water once all the bubbles and foam from the shower gel and hair shampoo have washed off and shakes his head, sending water flying like a wet dog. The towel feels as nice on his skin as he expected and he takes his time drying off before examining the kind of clothes Castiel provided for him. There's a pair of light grey sweat shorts, an oversized plain white tee and a still sealed ' _4 + 1 Free'_ value pack of underwear from a brand Dean recognizes. As he grabs the t-shirt after slipping on a pair of boxer briefs and the shorts he hears the distinct rustle of plastic and notices one of those cheap toothbrushes they sometimes offer in hotels on the counter below the last item of clothing.

Again he feels the tugging sensation only this time additionally there's a warm feeling settling low in his belly like a content cat rolling up on a sunny windowsill. He frowns at himself in the small mirror above the sink. He doesn't like to depend on others and therefore expected to be more than a little uncomfortable with imposing himself on Castiel, a guy he barely knows and who he is pretty sure hates him. Instead he feels relieved to escape the unbelievable mess that his life has become in the last two days and the fact that he's not completely on his own helps too.

After brushing his teeth and pulling the shirt over his head he hangs the damp towel on an empty rack and gathers his dirty clothes into a messy ball before awkwardly pulling open the door and emerging from the bathroom. Immediately the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches hits him and his stomach growls in response. He remembers that he hasn't eaten anything all day.

Carelessly he tosses the bunched-up clothes somewhere near the massive couch, out of immediate sight, and frowns at the stack of blankets. He once more postpones preparing a sleeping surface for himself in favour of the tantalizing smell coming from the kitchen. Running a hand through his damp hair, Dean follows his nose around a corner and finds a modest kitchen with a lonely dining table pushed up against the wall opposite the appliances.

Castiel is busy with placing two plates of grilled cheese sandwiches on said table, which is cue enough for Dean to remember his manners. "Can I help with anything?"

The bookseller's head snaps up in a mimicry of what Dean thinks he must have looked like all those times the other man surprised him with his sudden presence so far. He calms quickly, though, and even manages one of those almost-smiles of his. "Cutlery is in the top drawer on the far right, if you don't mind getting that."

Dean chuckles. "You don't use cutlery for grilled cheese, man."

"And what would you suggest we use instead, Dean? Our hands?"

"Well, yeah," Dean nods with determination. "You've seriously never done that?"

Castiel eyes him with obvious suspicion. "No. I can honestly say that I have not."

"You haven't lived," Dean informs him before walking over and sitting down on the chair the other man isn't standing in front of. He grabs one of the sandwich triangles off his plate and makes a show of lifting it, cheese strings stretching all the way up to his mouth, and taking a big bite while watching Castiel to make sure he's paying attention. He regrets his decision as soon as the freshly grilled food burns his tongue and fingers an instant later. "Son of a bitch," he yells, although it sounds more like ' _hom oph a bibpfh_ ' due to the fact that he has his cheeks stuffed full.

Castiel sits down as well, unfazed by the exclamation. He picks up a sandwich triangle himself, eyes it with a head-tilt and blows on it before taking a bite. Dean pouts at the fact that he obviously doesn't burn his tongue with the melted cheese, unlike himself. Noticing his expression, the bookseller lets his poker face slip and smiles smugly. "This would not have happened had you eaten like a civilized person."

"I regret nothing," Dean replies sulkily and picks up his food once more to underline his statement. He does, however, follow Castiel's example of blowing a huff of air over the cheese before daring to take another bite. "It tastes way better this way, just like pizza. Or burritos. Or burgers."

Castiel nods thoughtfully and swallows. "I have yet to form an opinion on the matter. But you may not be entirely wrong."

"Gee, thanks," Dean says with a chuckle, basking in the other man's almost-approval more than he probably has any right to.

They eat in silence for the majority of the meal after that exchange and Dean takes the opportunity to watch the man next to him closely. It's obvious that Castiel is an enthusiastic eater and is in no way too fancy to get his hands greasy, as opposed to what his initial scepticism implied, and Dean thinks the uptight act may be just that: an act. He just knows that there's another side to Castiel Novak, one that only very few people may be aware of, and he's almost desperate to discover that side. Maybe his actions have ruined any chance of ever hooking up with the guy, but that doesn't mean they can't form some sort of dysfunctional friendship, right?

"I'm sorry I was such an ass to you," Dean blurts out all of a sudden, nearly as surprised by his words as Castiel looks with the last bite of his grilled cheese raised halfway to his mouth. "I mean, I shouldn't have assumed it was okay to hit on you like that. Hell, I'm pretty sure it's not okay for me to hit on _anyone_ like that. I was used to getting who I wanted without any effort and when you didn't react like I was expecting you to, I just, I dunno, snapped, I guess."

Castiel silently finishes his food, wipes his fingers on his slacks, and pushes his plate a couple of inches away from his body. "I appreciate your apology, Dean," he finally says. "It's more than I expected from you."

"I can be a nice guy, I swear. Could we, like, start over?" It's a cliché, sure, but at this point Dean's life can't get any shittier anyway. Might as well take another risk.

"I suppose," Castiel agrees, sounding way less hostile than Dean thought he would.

"Awesome," the mechanic says and holds out his hand. "Hey, I'm Dean Winchester."

This time there is no hesitation and no judgmental glances before Castiel reaches out to accept Dean's greasy handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dean."

**…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How do you feel about magic?"

Dean awakes unusually early the next morning to a quiet apartment. For a moment he is confused but after a few seconds of grogginess he remembers where he is and why and decides to get up and ready for the day while Castiel is still asleep so the other man's morning routine won't be impaired. He quietly pads to the kitchen on bare feet, initially wanting to get a drink of water from the tap but making a beeline for the fridge when he remembers his contamination theory from the previous day. While he's at it he might as well look if Castiel's fridge holds any breakfast-related items.

Once the door is pulled open, Dean is met with the refrigerator's gaping emptiness. Except for two lonely water bottles, half a gallon of milk that upon closer inspection is well past its expiration date, and opened packages of cheese and butter in the top shelf, there's nothing in there. And not even Dean can magically pull off his trademark pancakes without so much as one egg.

Slightly disappointed that he obviously won't be able to impress Castiel with his cooking skills just yet, he merely grabs one of the water bottles and instead sets his mind on the task of finding and making coffee. In the same cupboard that he finds a glass and mug to drink from he discovers a jar filled with small packages of instant coffee and sugar like the ones you would expect in a motel room. He shrugs, remembering the meagre find isn't a surprise considering what Castiel said about coffee.

He fills the electric water heater with enough water from the bottle for two cups while softly humming Lynyrd Skynyrd's _Tuesday's Gone_ under his breath. As he's waiting for the water to boil he continues looking through the cabinets for a package of tea. Soon enough he finds a variety of small boxes with flowery labels and flavours like _Supreme Earl Grey_ , _Lavender & Oatmeal_, or _Lapacho Orange & Vanilla._ He just grabs one of each and places them on a small plate just as the water is ready to be poured. Dean literally has no idea which of the teas is considered most appropriate for breakfast use, so he decides to prepare the instant coffee for himself before worrying about it. After all Castiel isn't even up yet.

Or so Dean thinks, until he turns around to find the man in question watching him while casually leaning against the doorframe. In his surprise it's all he can do not to drop the steaming cup in his hand. Castiel looks more relaxed than Dean's seen him so far, wearing a pair of too-long black track pants that cover the heels of his socked feet and a grey AC/DC tee that seems well-loved and worn.

"You look quite at home here, don't mind me," Castiel says and _shit_ if his voice isn't more wrecked than ever.

"I- Sorry, you were still asleep and I didn't wanna wake you, I didn't mean to-"

"Be considerate?" Castiel makes a sound that may or may not be a chuckle, it's over too quickly to determine.

By means of distraction, Dean takes a step back and places his own cup back on the counter in favour of filling the empty tea cup he prepared with hot water and pushing it toward Castiel together with the small plate holding the tea bags. "I didn't know which one you wanted, so I kinda got you all of 'em," he explains sheepishly.

Castiel's somewhat mocking expression from earlier transforms first into one of confusion before it settles on a warmer look that lights up his eyes in a way Dean thinks he could really get used to. The other man finally pushes off the doorframe and walks toward Dean, accepting the plate he holds out and studying the small labels on the end of each tea bag string for its flavour. "That's very thoughtful of you, Dean. Thank you," he says, looking up to meet Dean's eyes as he chooses a bag with an orange tag. They're not standing particularly close but may as well have been if the unsteady thumping of Dean's heart is any implication.

"So, what flavour'd you go for?" The mechanic asks as he picks up his own cup again and takes a sip from the rapidly cooling liquid while Castiel places the tea bag in his hot water and adds some sugar to it.

"Roy-boss," he says curtly as if that's supposed to make sense.

"Uh huh," Dean mumbles, not willing to admit that he honestly has no idea what the bookseller means by that.

Apparently Castiel can read minds now, though, because he rolls his eyes with mild amusement and pushes past Dean to reach for one of the cartons in the cupboard. Dean is too shocked by the sudden proximity to react in any other way than to concentrate on _not_ looking at the sliver of exposed skin revealed by the t-shirt as Castiel stretches. A moment later an orange box is pushed into his hands and Castiel taps his index finger on the single word written below the brand label.

Rooibos.

Dean feels stupid now and Castiel, the smug bastard, knows it. He even has the audacity to wink at him before he turns. "I'll take a quick shower, let the _rooibos_ tea brew for a little while."

"What is that crap anyway, huh?" Dean hollers after him. "A fruit? A mix of herbs?"

The only reply he gets is a muffled chuckle from across the apartment.

* * *

One and a half hours and two bowls of cereal later finds the two men descending the staircase leading to _Divine Words_. Dean follows Castiel around while keeping up a light-hearted conversation. "I mean, I would've made you pancakes. You'd love 'em, I swear, but your fridge is a _wasteland,_ man. And it's not like I can just pop out to the store real quick these days."

A faint flash of something that almost looks like guilt crosses Castiel's features as the bookseller sends him a pitying look over his shoulder. "It's alright. I will go on a grocery run later. And if you want me to I can also stop by your house and maybe get some of your things?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah. If they aren't friggin' souvenirs by now."

"I'm sure your belongings are _fine_ , Dean. Do you want me to go or not?" The other man doesn't look at him. Instead he stares out the window, obviously assessing the situation outside. The street is as busy as on any day, meaning it's not overrun by the Dean Winchester Fan Club. Yet.

"You think they're back to normal?" Dean almost whispers, standing close behind.

"I wish we could be so lucky," Castiel replies with a resigned sigh. "What was your theory again, toxic water?"

"Shut up," the mechanic grunts. They had a brief conversation during breakfast over what Dean believed could have caused the general madness that erupted and after sharing his notion he had to watch Castiel laugh so hard his stupid-ass tea was almost running out of his nose.

"My apologies," the other man says. There's a long pause during which the two of them simply stand there and watch the people outside in companionable silence. Okay, so Castiel is the one watching the people. Dean just watches Castiel until he breaks the silence and the mechanic has to tear his eyes away. "It looks like it's going to rain, so maybe I'll head out right now. If you want to give me your address?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure." Dean rushes over to the countertop that's also home to Castiel's cash register and quickly finds a stack of post-its on top of a dusty book and a pencil to jot down his street name together with a couple of directions to get there. He carries the small piece of paper back to the bookseller who has now thrown on that hideous oversized trenchcoat. "There you go," Dean declares as he hands the sticky note over. "Thanks for doing this for me, man."

With a nod Castiel regards Dean's handwriting critically before pocketing the thing and moving toward the door. He stops with his hand on the handle and hesitates, patting the pockets of his slacks. He turns to face Dean. "I feel uncomfortable leaving you to fend for yourself."

"Naw, that's so sweet of you, Cas," Dean mocks, although genuinely touched by the confession. "But I'm a big boy, I can manage for an hour or two. 'Sides, it's not like anyone can just come prancin' in here."

"True. I'll still feel better if you promised to pick up that phone over there should I decide to call and check in with you. Is that acceptable?" He nods toward the landline resting on a narrow dresser."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yes, _mom_. I also won't open the door for strange men offering me candy and puppies."

Castiel snorts but seems appeased as he unlocks the door and steps outside but he doesn't walk away before turning once more. "You've called me that before… "

The mechanic is confused. "What, 'mom'?"

"No," the other man shakes his head. "'Cas'." There's a short pause before he adds, "I like it." And then he's gone.

"Me too, Cas," Dean mumbles to himself while pretending not to stare after the guy until he's out of sight. "Me too."

He stands there another moment before snapping out of it and double-locking the door while making sure none of the people outside see him. Being alone in the store is kind of creepy, though, so Dean immediately starts looking for a distraction. Shouldn't be too hard, he could probably just grab a book at random and read it until Castiel gets back. That reminds him, didn't he start a book yesterday?

He manoeuvres himself through the labyrinth of shelves until he reaches the pair of couches in the corner. Sure enough, he finds _Cat's Cradle_ still on the ground where he dropped it. Dean picks it up carefully, an odd feeling of shame flickering in the depths of his stomach as he examines the dog-ears he is responsible for. Not only because he knows what Castiel would think of them- though, that's a pretty big part of the reason- but also because he really kind of likes the book and he hasn't treated it with as much care as he should have.

 _Way to get into a guy's head, Cas,_ he thinks with a smirk while he settles into the worn leather of the couch. He flicks through the pages until he finds the paragraph he left off at and lets himself sink back into the story. It's surprisingly easy to get lost in the book and its characters and Dean makes a mental note to ask Castiel about other books by Vonnegut. Provided Sam never ever gets wind of it, Dean doesn't want to risk getting dragged off to book club meetings by his brother in the future.

It's not a very thick book, especially not compared to the monstrosities lining the ancient shelves of _Divine Words_ around him, but he still isn't done with it by the time the landline rings on its table even though Castiel seems to have been gone for a while now. Dean jerks into an upright position, blinking several times until he arrives back in reality. Once he realizes what the noise is exactly he jumps up and darts across the store. The phone stops ringing just as he comes to a halt in front of it, which is typical. When he's about to redial, someone knocks on the window, rattling the blinds. Cautiously Dean peeks outside only to find himself face to face with a grim looking and soaking wet Castiel.

"Open up, please," he says, his voice oddly dimmed by the glass between them. Dean just nods and walks over to the door to unlock it. As soon as he turns the lock a second time, Castiel pushes inside with his arms full of brown grocery bags and a duffle bag that Dean recognizes as his own. Immediately he slams the door shut again.

"That bad?" Dean asks miserably, taking in the other man's discouraged appearance. A small puddle of rain water forms on the floor boards.

"Worse," Castiel replies, handing the duffel over. "I'll take these up into the apartment." He disappears with the bags before Dean can ask about the situation outside. Left behind, Dean unzips the duffel bag and quickly looks through whatever Castiel packed. There's a pair of old jeans with holes in both knees, a jacket, and several t-shirts, two of which Dean knows are just a bit too tight for casual wear. Not that he thinks Castiel actually made that a factor of consideration.

The bookseller doesn't return for a while and Dean decides that he probably needs some space after his Odyssey to crazy town, not that he can blame the guy. Instead of going upstairs and needling him about what's going on outside, Dean shoulders his bag and returns to what he has come to consider his spot on the couch to read. He gets about as far as five consecutive pages until Castiel reappears after all. His hair is still dripping wet from the rain outside but he changed into a dry pair of sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. In his hands are two steaming cups.

"I know you're not much of a tea drinker, but I made you some anyway," he says softly. "You do not have to drink it, of course."

Setting the book aside, Dean smiles without meaning to. "No. No, tea's great, Cas. Thank you." He accepts the cup as Castiel hands it over before sitting down far enough away to cause a little ball of disappointment to form in Dean's stomach. He overplays it by taking a sip- and grimacing.

Castiel snorts. "It's not ready yet. Leave it for another two or three minutes so the flavour can unfold."

With a pout Dean sets the cup down on the table at his knee. He never knew drinking tea needed the same fucking expertise and finesse as wine tasting, excuse his ignorance. He grumbles to himself, not meeting Castiel's eyes and instead plays with the dog-eared pages of _Cat's Cradle_. When he looks up again he feels a little like he got sucker-punched in the gut. Castiel sits more relaxed than ever with one leg tugged underneath him while the other dangles from the couch, his cup is cradled between his hands and resting on his belly, and he smiles with an open fondness at Dean that makes his insides cramp painfully with _something_. It's such a stark contrast to the uptight and serious posture from that first day they met and since Dean already found him alluring back then, he doesn't really know what to do with the man that sits in front of him now. It's unfair, is what it is. Castiel hides his smile behind the cup in his hands as his eyes dart to Dean's hands.

"What?" the mechanic asks self-consciously, relieved when his voice doesn't give away any of his sudden confusion.

"You've been reading," Castiel says with a smug shrug of his shoulders.

The book lies traitorously in his lap when Dean looks at it. "Yeah. Well. Not like there's anything else to do around here."

"I do have a TV upstairs. With sports channels. There should be a NASCAR race on, if I'm not mistaken."

Deep down Dean really needs to suppress a whimper because now there's that _image_ in his head of him sitting upstairs on that massive couch, watching _ESPN_ as Castiel comes home and flops down next to him, making a comment or two before burying his nose in a book. It's such a simple scene that plays out in his mind and still Dean doesn't remember ever wanting anything more. "Wouldn't have heard the phone," he says sulkily in a pitiful excuse, the idea still vivid before his inner eye.

Castiel just hums, though it's not clear if it's a sound of agreement or if he's calling Dean out on his bullshit. Either way, the sound makes Dean want to slam his head against a wall because apparently he has no self-control left when it comes to that nerdy idiot.

The other man seems lost in thought for a long moment and when he looks up again his expression is unreadable. "Dean, I need to ask you something."

"Um, okay?"

A heavy sigh escapes Castiel and he closes his eyes briefly in frustration before focusing his too blue eyes on the mechanic. "How do you feel about magic?"

That was unexpected. Dean blinks dumbly. "I- uh… _Harry Potter_ is okay, I guess? The movies, I mean. Haven't read the books."

Obviously that wasn't an answer Castiel expected. He shakes his head. "No, I mean do you believe in it?"

"Like, for real?" Dean asks, honestly beginning to question his companion's sanity. "What the hell is in your tea, man?"

"Please try and take this seriously," Castiel pleads and he looks sincere enough that Dean can't help but nod. "Have you never felt like there might be something powerful out there? Something that cannot be sufficiently explained by terrestrial measures and norms?"

"No, Cas. Never. And even if I had, I probably would've gone with aliens not… not _magic_ , dude."

"I understand." Castiel doesn't look like he does when he says that. "Would you be willing to keep an open mind if I told you a couple of things regarding the topic?"

Dean sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "I can try, but I'm not making promises."

"Thank you," the bookseller mutters, taking another sip of his tea. Dean mirrors the action but the liquid is bitter and kind of disgusting. He doesn't show his distaste and just motions for Castiel to say whatever is on his mind. "When I say magic, I don't mean in the sense of potions, flying broomsticks and Elderwands," he begins. "It's more like an awareness of the energy all around us. I'm sure you've heard of Ley Lines and perhaps Crossroads. These are terms used for places that hold an abundance of that spiritual energy, so to say. Some people are able to channel this energy and transform it into something else, a power to use. This then grants them the ability to change the material reality. The appropriate word to describe such a person would probably be 'witch', though I'm afraid the term comes with a somewhat sour repute. Most of today's witches only deal with minor pagan rituals in order to channel their powers, perhaps to cure a sick animal or bless an upcoming harvest. Of course there's exceptions. Instead of harmless White Magic, some witches indulge in mischievous acts, or even harmful spells. Curses."

"That's all very interesting, Cas. But why are you telling me this?" Dean is at a point at which he considers grabbing the duffle bag at his feet and fleeing the scene. If Castiel seriously believes in what he's saying he may as well be just as crazy as the rest of the damn town.

"I believe we might be dealing with a curse," the other man says gravely.

And that's it. Dean can't take it anymore. He doesn't run but his carefully maintained façade breaks and he bursts out laughing. It's not all humorous, there's some desperation mixed into the belly-deep sound, but he just can't help it. "Cas," he wheezes out. "Is that- payback for this morning?"

"It most certainly is not," Castiel says, looking way more offended than he has any right to.

Dean stops laughing. "Wait. You're really serious?"

"Yes."

"So, what you're saying is magic is legit while poisoned water is bullshit."

Again, "Yes."

The mechanic frowns and leans forward in his seat. "On a scale from 1 to Palamedes- how stoned are you right now?"

Castiel's glare is unrivalled in its malice. "I do neither appreciate your scepticism, nor your puns regarding mythological lapidation victims," he says darkly before something sparks in his eyes that almost looks like wonder. "Although, I have to say I'm a little impressed by the reference."

"I'm full of surprises," Dean says with a shrug.

"That you are," Castiel agrees. They stare at each other calculatingly for longer than Dean would consider normal- but normal isn't really their thing anyway. He trusts Castiel, he realizes, unconditionally. And that probably isn't healthy, or particularly smart but the decision has been made without his brain having any say in it. There's still an 80% chance of Castiel being utterly insane but Dean is willing to look past that for now. No matter how ridiculous it sounds, at least magic is a starting point for further investigation.

"So… tell me more."

* * *

As it turns out, Castiel knows quite a bit about paganism and the mystical elements connected to it and spends the better part of the day explaining the details to Dean. The Crazy-O-Meter climbs slightly when the bookseller mentions that fairies may or may not be an actual thing and rattles off evidence, but it comes to rest at a steady 82.5% of craziness when Dean finds himself genuinely intrigued.

It's stupid, sure, but it also kind of makes sense. He's cursed. Problem is, he has no idea when he had the time to royally piss off a witch in the past week between work and, well, watching Castiel. Especially since the latter was sort of a full-time occupation. Which isn't pathetic _at all_.

"Are you even still listening to me?"

Dean's head jerks up at the accusing tone of Castiel's voice because, _no, apparently not_. "Sorry, what?"

The bookseller sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly. "Never mind."

"Y'know, you look knackered," Dean says sympathetically. "How about we call it a day and I see what I can make from the stuff you bought? I mean I'm sure you got a bunch of books chilling in your shelves, just waiting to help us out on the matter." He pauses, vaguely remembering something. "Now that I think of it, isn't there an old-ass spell book just on your desk? Like, what did you call it- a _grimoire_? I think I saw it when I was picking up stuff to write down my address this morning." Encouraged, he jumps up and wants to walk over there to check but Castiel places a hand on his shoulder in that one touch that would stop Dean dead in his tracks no matter what.

"Dean…"

"No, really! It's huge and- and kinda mouldy, I don't know. Old as fuck, probably. Maybe we can look through it, see what curse whoever's panties I twisted laid on me and _poof_ -" he mimes a tiny explosion with his hands- "everything goes back to normal."

For a split-second Castiel looks horrified but when Dean blinks the expression has already vanished again and made way for that eerily neutral look that indicates that the man is hiding his true emotions. Dean frowns until Castiel forces his mouth into a smile. "That sounds like a plan for tomorrow. Would you mind terribly going ahead upstairs while I lock up down here?"

"But the book's literally just-"

"I will check," Castiel says sternly in a voice that leaves no room for argument. Dean finds the change of attitude strange but doesn't comment on it because his stomach growls and so does Castiel's. It really is time for food. With a nod, the mechanic shakes off the hand on his shoulder and grabs the duffle bag from where it still lies on the floor, _Cat's Cradle_ stuffed in with his clothes, before heading right upstairs.

For a guy whose main source of nutrition seems to be grilled cheese, Castiel has a pretty satisfactory way of stocking up his fridge. There's beer, eggs, stuff for good old BLT sandwiches, cookie dough, ground beef, and next to the fridge Dean sees a small Italian espresso machine and a package of strong coffee. Trying not to think too hard about what that last one might mean, Dean grabs the meat and onions to prepare some Grade A hamburgers after John Winchester's recipe- the only useful thing his dad ever left him.

Cooking is something that can calm a man immensely, Dean's learned that at a young age when it was just him and Sammy and they both grew sick of cheap snacks after Dad just stayed away a week longer than he'd promise. It sucked, it really did, but Dean isn't someone to define himself by his sob story for his entire life, and at least some good came out of it.

The meat, formed into close-to-perfect patties, is already sizzling in a pan when Castiel finally reappears. He does so like he did in the morning, silently and with the secret purpose to make Dean jump in surprise. Which he doesn't do… much. "Christ, I'll seriously get you that bell we talked about if you don't start announcing yourself."

"Do I look like cattle to you?" Castiel prompts. "Besides. This is my home."

The guy sounds pissed and Dean wrecks his brain thinking of what he might have said or done wrong. When he can't come up with anything he decides to just go with appeasement politics. The burgers are about ready, the warm patties just waiting to be filled with meat. _No homo. Heh._ Dean chuckles because he's an immature bastard while stacking all the ingredients into delicious little towers. If those things don't put a smile on Castiel's dumb face, nothing will.

"Cas?" he yells half-loudly, not sure if the other man is still in the room. When he gets no answer he throws the dishtowel that he wiped away surplus sauce with over his shoulder and gathers the dinner plates in his hands, balancing them delicately while he goes to look for Castiel. He doesn't have to search long, finding the bookseller in the living room staring out the window. "Hey, buddy, food's getting cold," he says softly from a safe distance. Castiel doesn't turn immediately but Dean can see his reflection in the glass and it's still miserable, though no longer directed at the mechanic.

"You needn't have made something so time-consuming, Dean," Castiel chastises as he finally turns around, his features softer. His speech pattern changed back into a more formal one at some point and that's kind of worrisome because Dean thought he was finally getting through to the guy.

"Nah," he says with half a shrug, dismissing the odd mood for good. "S'the least I can do."

They sit down on the big sofa, plates on their knees and Dean just knows Castiel is about to ask for cutlery, so he grabs his burger and takes an inappropriately large bite out of it. The bookseller rolls his eyes but then picks up his own burger. It's a little anticlimactic, really. In his head Dean imagined Castiel would moan his appreciation, maybe close his eyes and lick his lips while in reality none of these things happen. The only response he gets is a semi-obligated mutter of _Thank you_ and a small grunt that's decidedly unsexy, even coming from a guy like Castiel.

Eating his own burger, Dean feels himself growing frustrated. "Hey, did I do anything wrong?"

Castiel's head snaps around, eyes wide. "No, of course not."

"Then what's the deal with you being so pensive all of a sudden?"

"I-" It's a little hilarious, the way Castiel's mouth snaps shut before opening again without a word coming out. "It's not something you did."

"Something I said, then?"

The other man shakes his head _No_. "I'm just not… feeling too well." A small crease appears in the middle of his forehead and Dean has the overwhelming urge to kiss it away.

"Shit," he says a little too loudly and he's not entirely sure if it's in response to what Castiel said or to the way his mind can't seem to stay clear of the proverbial gutter. "I mean, uh, I hope you didn't catch a cold out in the rain today."

"I am probably just exhausted, Dean. Thank you for your concern," Castiel says as he gets up and takes their empty plates. "I might just go to sleep early."

Dean doesn't want that. He knows feigned sickness when he sees it and Castiel looks perfectly healthy and not even remotely tired enough to qualify as exhausted as he carries the dishes off to the kitchen. Dude's just hella distracted, is all. "Hey, I was thinking of maybe watching some football if that's cool," he yells. "Wanna join me?" It's a friendly enough offer, not too pushy, and it seems to work. When Castiel re-enters the room the little crease is gone from his face and replaced by that special almost-smile.

"Would it bother you if I read a book? Football isn't exactly an interest of mine. But I would gladly keep you company."

That's how they end up next to each other on the couch once more. Dean cradling a beer in his hand and distractedly watching the game and Cas next to him with his nose buried in the well-worn copy of _Cat's Cradle_ that he must have snatched from Dean's duffle bag at some point. Their knees bump together every so often and ultimately Dean ends up reading over Castiel's shoulder more than keeping score. It's comfortable, just like he imagined it. It's perfect.

And for the time being he really doesn't feel cursed at all.

**…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, two things
> 
> 1- The Palamedes joke is so bad on so many levels, I feel the sincere need to apologize. Sorry.  
> 2- I am bullshitting myself through the magical elements of this story because I'm lazy but this is a more than 20k crack!fic so I don't know what you expected (also- holy assbutt, 20k!) 
> 
> 3- I want to wrap this up in one or two chapters because this is just getting out of hand
> 
> That was three things. Oops.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, so you think this is funny?"

Something changes after that night. Dean is reluctant to admit it to himself but there's a couple of things weirding him out that have nothing to do with the daily pilgrimage in his honour along Main Street. Or maybe there _is_ a connection and he just hasn't found it yet. Either way he isn't any closer to finding what curse has been cast on him, or who did it, _or_ how to lift it. The book he thought he'd seen was their best lead until it turned out that it isn't a grimoire at all. Except if a collection of _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_ counts as one. Which, to Dean, it does not. Then again, he's still not convinced that the cook book is really the item he saw but after multiple occasions of arguing the matter with Castiel the mechanic has lost the nerve to look into the mystery any further. Especially since the other man always answers him in a tone that allows no discussion.

_("Cas, are you sure this book's been here the entire time?"_

" _Without question."_

" _So there's no way you misplaced the grimoire and put this here without thinking?"_

" _I don't misplace things, Dean."_

" _Why do you keep a recipe book on your desk when you don't even cook?"_

" _It's light literature.")_

So yeah. Three days later and no news whatsoever. Castiel keeps the shop closed while they spend hours and hours looking through books and transcripts that are too great in number to even fit in the shelves. Every day Dean finds new boxes and folders filled to the brim with mythological tales, scientific papers, adventure novels, and even the occasional comic book. It only strengthens the initial image he had of the bookshop- a place that is truly something special, much like its owner.

Dean is sure he already looked through every book on every shelf he could reach so that leaves him with everything that's higher up than he can stretch without the help of a ladder. Since Castiel is roaming about somewhere on his own as he so often does, the mechanic checks a couple of spots he remembers until he finds the long wooden ladder the other man uses to reach whatever he stores in the topmost shelves. It looks old and not as stable as Dean would want it to but he's determined to get his life back to normal, even if he can't deny that he's going to miss spending his days with the quirky bookseller.

He remembers the conversations they had in the evenings over dinner, with Dean talking about Sam and Mom and how much he loves them, while Castiel avoided sharing anything too personal, instead rambling on about the places he loves and books and authors that made him want to start a bookstore in the first place. And he did it with such a passion that Dean doesn't mind how much of an enigma the other man remains, even after so much time together.

Another look around still doesn't give away Castiel's hiding place, so Dean just shrugs to himself and climbs the ladder, pretending not to hear the unsettling way it creaks under his weight or the way the wood sags as he goes higher and higher. Up there dust is already beginning to settle on the books even though he knows Castiel has only recently moved the shop here. It's a little ridiculous how much of a routine it has become for Dean to scan his eyes over the titles, authors and symbols on the books before him to see if it looks anything like what Castiel described. To his disappointment he comes up empty like he has with every shelf in the store so far and it's _frustrating_. Enough so that the annoyed huff he makes is accompanied by an exasperated kick against the side of the ladder, which is really not the smartest move.

Castiel seems to agree because when he suddenly appears, as he always fucking does, his eyes widen enough to be considered hilarious and Dean is tempted to laugh, he really is, but just as he wants to open his mouth the wood beneath his feet gives way and the mechanic gracelessly falls down together with the rotten steps. As his body collides with the hardwood floor the breath gets knocked out of him and for a long moment he's incapable of doing anything but stare at the ceiling and the dancing spots before his eyes. A moment later even that view is blocked out when a familiar handsome face appears in his line of sight.

"Dean, are you alright?"

The mechanic's first impulse is to laugh it off but instead all that comes out is a breathless cough. He grabs Castiel's extended hand and lets himself be dragged off the floor, wincing at the dull pain in his back. "Thanks," he finally gets out as he brushes off his clothes so he doesn't have to look at the way Castiel's forehead gets that little wrinkle.

"I should have warned you about that," the bookseller says grimly. "It is- _was_ \- not the most stable if used incorrectly."

Again, Dean is surprised how many self-evident things there are to be done incorrectly and how he seems to be the one to find them all. Maybe he should make a game of Bingo out of it. "At least now we know there's nothing up there that can help," Dean says, eyeing the books above his head that he was at eye-level with not two minutes ago. He sighs and turns to face the other man. "Where'd you disappear to earlier?"

For some reason that makes Castiel chuckle. "While you were so very much entranced with your search," he sends a sardonic look Dean's way, "I heard quite the commotion outside and decided to investigate."

"And?" Dean asks when the bookseller doesn't care to elaborate. Only now he notices a piece of pink fabric in the other man's hands.

Castiel holds it out to him. "I think you should see for yourself."

Slowly, sceptically, Dean unfolds what he comes to recognize as a t-shirt but as soon as he sees what's printed on it he feels his stomach drop, much like he did from the ladder. His own face is staring back at him. He recognizes the photo, too. It was taken at a party during one of his visits to Sam and Jo when they got drunk and somehow dragged him into a photo competition. Dean did the _Blue Steel_ and ended up winning, which meant his photo was published on that stupid fraternity website and even though Ash the IT guy had done his best to delete it again the next morning it had been up long enough for God knows how many people to download it.

On some level Dean has always known that it would come back to haunt him one day.

"Aw, crap," he says.

Instead of commenting, Castiel grabs his wrist and gently leads him to the front window so Dean can see for himself. Which he's not entirely sure is something he wants. What he sees outside is probably the beginning of the Apocalypse. All the people that mill the street, looking for Dean Winchester, chatting about Dean Winchester, are now wearing that fugly t-shirt sporting _Dean Winchester_.

 _The_ _Hell is wrong with the world_ , the mechanic asks himself for about the billionth time as his jaw drops. "Who's behind all this?"

Castiel shrugs and shakes his head while he stares outside like the answer is pretty obvious. As Dean follows the gaze he gets the feeling that he shouldn't be surprised as he spots a young woman sitting at what looks like a recycled lemonade stand full with stacks of pink tees.

_Becky Rosen._

Of-fucking- _course_ it's Becky Rosen- his brother's creepy stalker friend from high school- who followed Dean around like a lost puppy for _weeks_ when Sam wouldn't go on a second date with her just so she could still be close to the younger Winchester. It's no wonder she somehow got a hold on the picture and has probably been waiting for an opportunity to use it, even without being brainwashed into doing so.

"I wish I'd climbed higher up that ladder so the fall could have killed me." Dean is being dead serious but doesn't quite get that message across, judging by the soft laughter that escapes Castiel just before he manages to muffle it with his hand.

"Oh, so you think this is funny?" The mechanic knows that Castiel doesn't mean to be infuriating, because yeah, it _is_ funny. Just not after a week. And not when it's happening to Dean personally. He really does have the urge to go out there, set fire to the little makeshift market stand Becky has going and maybe punch someone that's not her because _he doesn't hit girls_ , not even under these circumstances. "Why do they even buy this?" he asks miserably after a long enough pause for Castiel to get a hold on himself.

"She's giving them away for free," the bookseller clarifies. "So everyone can… ' _share the love_ '." The air quotes that accompany the explanation are atrocious but Dean can't even wince at the awkward gesture because apparently the usually so stoic man next to him is just about as done with the situation outside as Dean is. Only that he shows it through uncontained laughter instead of a litany of frustrated groans and suppressed violence.

"Fuck you, man," Dean tells him irritatedly, throwing the bunched-up t-shirt he's still been holding at the other man's head before turning around and walking- more like _hobbling_ , thanks to his sore body- away. He doesn't get far, though. A moment later he's being yanked around and pushed up against a bookshelf with enough force to send a couple of dictionaries tumbling to the floor. Castiel's eyes burn into his like blue fire and he looks like he's about to foam at the mouth in his fury, all traces of mockery and amusement gone.

"Do you think you're the only one affected by this madness?" Castiel growls, pushing him up along the shelf far enough so Dean has to stand on his tiptoes even though he's slightly taller. The mechanic swallows hard in an attempt to answer but Castiel won't let him, leaning closer so his breath ghosts over Dean's face. "I am trapped in here as much as you are, in case you haven't noticed."

And Dean really hasn't thought about it that way. All the days they've spend together and it hasn't occurred to him once that Castiel has had to deal with all the crazy people just like him, the only difference being that he could move among them if he wanted to. Although Dean doesn't understand why anyone in their right mind would want to, a notion supported by the fact that Castiel hasn't gone out again since his grocery run a couple of days back. "M'sorry," he croaks out. Castiel's grip on him loosens slightly.

"I'm the one that allowed you inside my home. I can throw you back out." The other man leans impossibly closer still, lips at Dean's ear. "You should show me some _respect_."

That… should not turn Dean on as much as it does. But that voice together with what Castiel is saying take his breath away more effectively than the hands holding him up by his collar. Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

He licks his lips, not in a seductive way but because suddenly his mouth feels uncomfortably dry as Castiel leans back, ever so slowly putting more distance between them. Their eyes meet and just like that the fury disappears from Castiel's gaze as quickly as it overtook him earlier. Once more the mechanic is intrigued by the other man's volatile temper. They study each other, neither quite sure what exactly is going on until Castiel's tongue darts out and tentatively wets his own lips in a movement diligently observed by Dean.

They are standing incredibly close, enough so that Dean feels an echo of Castiel's heartbeat in his own chest as the bookseller gently lowers him until the soles of his feet are securely on the ground again. It's strangely tender, intimate, when they just continue to stand there in silence, neither making a move to step away and end the moment.

Until Dean does.

"I'm so asking you out when all this is over. I'll find a place where they got that fancy rooibos tea thing whatever, and… I don't know, we'll go to that lake you mentioned and it'll be a date." Dean says, eyes drooping slightly at the fantasy. "Say No all you want, that's final."

Castiel's eyes dart around nervously as a blush creeps its way onto his cheekbones. The mechanic can fucking see how the guy pictures the scene, considers it, mulls it over in that thick skull of his, until he sags against Dean with a sigh, face buried in the heated skin of Dean's throat. Slowly Dean dares to raise his arms until he can wrap them around the other man.

"I won't say No," Castiel murmurs, lips brushing against Dean's skin as he speaks, raising gooseflesh all over the mechanic's body. He tightens his own grip for the fraction of a second before stepping back and away from Dean who lets him go without protest. The vulnerability in Castiel's eyes scares him the moment he sees it. "You on the other hand may wish to change your decision."

"What do you mean? I've wanted to go out with you from the moment I saw you, I just did a shitty job at getting the message across. Why would I change my mind _now_?"

"Wait here," Castiel says with a sigh, hand halfway extended Dean's way as if he wants to touch him one last time before shit hits the fan. He never does, though, just turns around and walks off. Dean's head falls back against the shelf behind him and he closes his eyes. _So much for staying 'just friends'_.

It doesn't take long until the bookseller returns and when he does Dean's eyes immediately snap open and focus on the massive book carefully cradled in the very hands that only minutes ago had been curled into the collar of his shirt. He recognizes it instantly. It's green and old and gives off a vibe of power that Julia Child can only dream of, _Mastered Art_ or not.

"Cas…" he says carefully. "How long have you had this?"

"I- Dean. I'm sorry." Castiel doesn't meet his eyes, just stares at the faded symbols on the cover. Symbols Dean remembers seeing before.

"How long?" he repeats sternly, stepping closer with his hands raised, palms facing Castiel as if he's a wild animal that could run off at any moment.

"I found it this morning. It was in the box with angel lore. I must have… misplaced it."

The mechanic snorts. "No, you see, I looked through that box a dozen times. It wasn't _in there_. Plus, I thought you didn't misplace things."

"To every rule there's an exception that validates it." Castiel looks so utterly mortified that Dean can't help but believe the guy. And come on, how messed up would it be if Castiel kept him from finding the grimoire on purpose. He said it himself, he's trapped just as much as Dean is.

"You still could've told me earlier, man. Would have saved me a domestic accident." Dean laughs as he waits for Castiel to hand over the book which the other man does hesitantly. The mechanic lowers himself until he's sitting cross-legged on the floor with the grimoire in his lap. "So what now? I just look at the index, find the curse for crazy fanclubs, and think magic thoughts to make it go away?"

The Universe apparently has a problem with seeing Dean happy. Because it's not that simple. Books that old, it turns out, do not _have_ an index. Neither are they written in any order whatsoever or in English. Especially that last part sucks majorly since Dean's knowledge of foreign languages is limited to questions like _Donde esta la biblioteca_ and _Voulez-vous couchez avec moi_.

Thankfully Castiel seems to sense his distress once he pushes the fallen dictionaries from earlier back into their respective places. He joins Dean on the floor and looks over his shoulder, scanning the yellowed pages beneath the mechanic's calloused fingers. "This page tells you how to converse with various sea creatures," he provides helpfully.

"You can read this shit?"

"To a certain extent. It seems to me like a rather odd mixture of Gaelic and Latin, as if written by two different people. The information given also contradicts itself in several lines. Like this one." Castiel taps a finger to the fading ink. At least Dean _hopes_ it's ink, the page does give off a bit of a coppery odour that would imply otherwise.

"Yeah, whatever. As much as I've always wanted to be _Aquaman_ I doubt a seahorse is gonna help me so maybe we should keep looking," Dean says, flipping the page to reveal something that looks like a very advanced mandala. It's beautiful until a closer look reveals it consists of skulls and bones, which is still kind of cool but at the same time way too creepy for Dean's taste. "Please tell me that's not it either," he says.

"No," Castiel chuckles as he quickly reads over the page. "This is a spell that is supposed to channel the energy of your ancestors. All you have to do is copy this image onto something that you can carry around with you and it will work as protection against bad luck."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

Castiel sends him a look. "One mistake in the drawing and it will do the exact opposite. Bad luck will follow you everywhere until you die," he deadpans.

"Like losing a rabbit's foot?"

"Yes, Dean," Castiel agrees, although it sounds a lot like he's merely humouring him, "exactly like losing a rabbit's foot."

Dean flips the page without further comment. After a couple more minutes of useless page-turning they finally find a section dealing with mischief of all sorts. They come across a spell that summons a single magic snowball that always hits its target, one that makes a person of your choice dance uncontrollably for the duration of one song, and Dean's personal favourite, a spell that conjures a tiny raincloud that will follow you around all day and rain on all the people you send it after. It's altogether an utterly pointless collection of pranks, nothing close to the disaster of epic proportions happening outside. Dean keeps on looking through the book, eyes skimming over the images and runic symbols drawn all over the wrinkly pages and he is just about to give up all hope and keep on searching for another book when Castiel's hand on his wrist stops him.

"This is it," he says, although he doesn't sound too happy about it.

The page shows nothing that would make it particularly memorable, just something that looks like a list and a couple of lines that are repeated over and over. "You sure?"

"Very." Castiel lets go of Dean's hand in favour of pointing at the page, following one line with his finger as he reads it out loud. " _Vanitatis mixtura dementiae fuit._ " Dean is still hung up on the lovely way the bookseller's tongue rolls around the strange words when the other man starts explaining. "It basically means 'Vanity Insanity'," Castiel explains. "A spell that is cast over a person too confident for their own good. There's several nuances to it, several ways it can be interpreted depending on the witch, so to say. But generally I think that this is what we're dealing with."

 _Huh. Would you look at that_ , Dean thinks to himself. _Vanity_. "It is kind of fitting," he agrees. "What's next?"

Castiel sighs and reads over the page again. "Only the witch that cast the spell can lift it, so if we find her we can probably make a deal."

"That's great, Cas," Dean says, his voice anything but happy. "Just one problem. You've met me at my douchiest point, so out of all the women I pissed off lately, how do I tell which one's the witch?" In his wildest dreams he never thought he'd utter a phrase like that while being serious about it.

"The town started acting up on Monday. So it must have been shortly before that," Castiel says and it sounds reasonable. And it thankfully narrows down the number of possible suspects.

"Jamie," he says with conviction. "The waitress from across the street. She's been all over me during my lunchbreaks but I kind of only used her for free refills. She gave me her number and all. Never called her because I had someone else on my mind. Fits the profile, doesn't it?"

"I… suppose," Castiel agrees but something in the way he looks at Dean doesn't seem right. Then it hits him.

"Hey, I'm not as much of a slut as you think. You realize I never called her because I was kind of into you, right?" _'Kind of into_ _you'_ doesn't even begin to cover it but that's all talk for another day when everything is back in order.

"So except for Jamie and myself there was no one else?" Castiel bites his lip as if he knows something he's not supposed to. Dean thinks.

"No." Except that's not true. The mechanic's eyes widen with realization. "Meg," he hisses. "I _knew_ she was way too easy! God _damnit_ , Cas. When you blew me off I was totally out of it, so I went out to the club and my friend Benny told me there was that chick… I couldn't remember if I'd slept with her. Actually I couldn't remember anything at all and thought it was because of the alcohol. Instead she must have cursed me. Shit."

"Yes, that does sound more like a witch," Castiel says with a solemn nod.

"Right now _witch_ isn't the word I'd use," Dean growls, "although what I'm thinking of definitely rhymes with it." He takes a couple of deep breaths to calm himself before getting up, careful not to lose the open page. "Please tell me there's something in here that tells us how to get a hold of 'er."

Castiel gets up as well and takes the book from Dean, nodding. "In order for the spell to work this long she needs to still be in town. First we need to locate her and then bind her to the spot so she can't run away. Since you are the one affected it would make sense for you to use the connection between you two. The binding spell doesn't look like a complicated one, we'll just need a couple of ingredients for the location spell, which is slightly more complex."

"We shall need a crossbow, an hourglass, three goats, one of us must learn to play the trumpet, whilst the other one goes like this," Dean wiggles his fingers in the air while slurring out his best Jack Sparrow impression.

"I don't understand that reference." Castiel doesn't look impressed. "Maybe you should leave the gathering of ingredients to me."

"Good," Dean says, suddenly feeling a lot better about life in general as he wiggles his fingers again. "I can go like this."

Castiel just rolls his eyes.

* * *

They walk down the street to where Dean, or the spell he cast, located the witch and hopefully keeps her bound to the spot like the book said. Dean has his shoulders pulled up and fervently hopes the sunglasses and baseball cap are enough of a disguise. Man, he can't wait for this crap to be over. This is madness. Every couple of steps he steals a glance at the man walking beside him, blessing the sunglasses and the way they keep his curiosity inconspicuous. Castiel seems… oddly nervous. Like, okay, maybe it's because they are on their way to face a flippin' witch, which is definitely not something either of them do every day. Or ever. But still, the way Castiel's eyes dart nervously along the sidewalk and the occasional uneasy stumble in his step tell Dean that something's up with the guy. And it shouldn't have him wanting to comfort Castiel and ask him what's wrong and maybe offer a hug. It really shouldn't. Just as Dean is about to break, arm already halfway in the air to stop the other man's pace, he spots a familiar face and drops his hand.

"That's her over there," he tells Castiel quietly, nodding at the girl leaning against the wall of the very bar he first met her in. Her posture is relaxed but her expression gives away her annoyance at apparently being trapped on the spot she's occupying. Dean doesn't know why he is surprised to see the same girl he met, except that she changed her hair-colour from red to blond. Some part of him apparently held onto the image of an angry old woman in the context of ' _witch'_. Well, at least the angry part is probably true to his imagination, he guesses as he watches Meg aggressively push a strand of newly-dyed hair behind her ear once she spots him.

"Really, Dean? A binding spell?" Meg huffs out an annoyed laugh. "I don't have time for this."

"Then let's get this over with quickly," Dean says after looking beside him to make sure Castiel is still there. He is- but he definitely looks like he'd rather be somewhere else, even if that somewhere turned out to be a dumpster in the general area of, say, Kazakhstan.

Meg raises an eye-brow, waiting. Castiel does his best to look anywhere but directly at the witch.

"Listen," Dean starts, slightly weirded out by the two people ignoring each other. "I know you cast a vanity-spell on me because I was too cocky for my own good or somethin', alright? I'm sorry I, uh, hurt your feelings. I regret it. I now know the true value of people's opinions and will lead a better life. We good?"

The witch's expression changes to one of utter amusement as she turns to face Cas fully, a low chuckle escaping her. "What do you think, Clarence? He learnt his lesson yet?"

That was… not something Dean expected. He turns sharply to stare at Castiel who turns about as white as a wall and is just as still as one. " _Clarence_? What? Do you _know_ each other?"

"Oh, I'd say so," Meg chirps, looking at her nails like they are true pieces of avant-garde art. "Your little unicorn here was the one to ask for my help in the first place."

Dean's jaw hangs open in a way that's probably highly unattractive. "Unicorn?" he repeats dumbly before crossing his arms and sending a serious glare toward Castiel as he finally lines all the facts up in his mind. "You were in on this the whole time?"

Again, Meg is the one to speak in Castiel's place. "You were right, Clarence. He _is_ just a 'stupid ape', isn't he?" The witch cocks her head to the side and clucks her tongue pityingly. "And he's so pretty, this one. Such a shame."

"Okay. Hold on just a sec," Dean says, taking off his sunglasses in favour of running an agitated hand down his face. Which, in retrospect, was not a smart move. A girl passing by happens to look directly at him and lets out a high-pitched squeal of " _Oh my God, it's Dean Winchester!"_ which in turn effectively causes a cluster of overly-excited people to form around the trio.

"Meg," Castiel says sternly, speaking up for the first time. "Would you _mind_?!" He gestures around them. The witch rolls her eyes dramatically before closing them and chanting something under her breath. A moment later all people except for Dean, Castiel and Meg herself drop to the ground, fast asleep. The blonde opens her eyes and sends Cas a sassy look, as if asking if this is sufficient. "Thank you," Castiel says.

For a long moment it's quiet between the three of them. Until Dean loses it. "Just what the fuck is going on here?" he yells at Castiel who shrinks back guiltily.

"It isn't what it looks like?" The slight pitch at the end of the sentence does not help to make it believable, instead turning the statement into a question.

"Oh?" Dean asks. "So you _didn't_ send a freakin' witch after me who _put a curse on me,_ just to then pretend that you're my friend and let me sort through a metric fuckton of lore to find said witch again?"

"…It's exactly what it looks like," Meg supplies helpfully before stage-whispering, "Sorry, Clarence."

"Alright, yes! I did conspire with Meg. It was supposed to be a joke, to teach you a lesson, but things escalated! You turned up at my shop and we spent so much time together and… got to know each other. I never wanted it to go this far, I swear." Castiel is breathing heavily and it even looks like his eyes are slightly watery at the edges. Dean can't bring himself to care about that, fury mixing with a deep sense of betrayal.

"I can't believe it," Dean huffs. "What in the world did I ever fucking do to you? Is it because I didn't like reading and un-dusting your shitty old books? Or did your _normal_ rejection not quite do it for you?"

"No, Dean, please you don't understand!"

"Damn right I don't!"

"Boys!" Meg yells over the verbal ping-pong match that is their current conversation. "Not that I don't find this lover's spat entertaining as hell, because I do. But a girl has responsibilities in the real world, I'm sure you understand that." She looks expectantly between Dean and Castiel, a faint smirk pulling at her red lips. "Clarence, if you'd be so kind as to let me go."

Castiel sighs heavily. "Will you lift the curse?"

The blonde shrugs. "Sure. It was getting boring anyway. Now let. Me. Go."

Castiel looks like he is about to say something but Dean cuts him off before the first syllable can escape his lips. "Wait! We ain't letting the bitch go before this hellish freak-show goes back to normal."

Meg narrows her eyes, all traces of amusement gone from her face. "Calm your tits, Winchester," she hisses. "If I lift the curse right now, all these people will wake up with no memory of the past week and when they look down they'll see that they're wearing shirts with your pretty face on them and have no idea why. And then they'll see you standing here at the centre of attention, don't you think that might raise some questions?" She claps her hands together dramatically. "But fine, I guess if you're so eager to-"

"Jesus, I get it," Dean gives in, hating the return of the witch's smirk. "Cas lets you go, I get the fuck outta here, we hopefully don't see each other again. Ever."

"Sounds good to me," Meg says. "Clarence?"

"Stop calling me that," Castiel grumbles but closes his eyes nonetheless. A couple of Latin lines and the melodramatic flare of a flame later, Meg sighs and stretches her limbs as if she has been cuffed this entire time.

"Thank you," the blonde says. "Now, angel, I hope you and your handsome piece of ass over there hold this little experience dear and get some good laughs out of it in the future. I know I will." Meg winks flirtatiously and does a one-eighty spin, lifting a hand in a wave. "Toodles!"

Dean watches her skip over the odd sleeper or two as she disappears down the road before he shakes his head and turns to head home, where he intends to just get the Impala, drive somewhere far, far away and get thoroughly drunk.

A hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Dean…"

"I don't want to hear another word from you, man," Dean says coldly, yanking his arm away and walking off, pointedly ignoring the dropping of his stomach at the other man's expression- for now the bastard deserves it.

**…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more shorter chapter after this so those two idiots can have a serious chat


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So," Dean finally breaks the silence. "Come here often?"

Bobby Singer wakes up on a park bench, covered in confetti. He groans and stretches and tries to remember what the Hell had been in that bottle Rufus sent him to knock him out like that. All around him are disorientated people stumbling about, not talking to each other as if something embarrassing's happened to all of them. He looks at his watch, remembers that it's broken, sighs and gets up.

Something's fishy.

He glances down his body and almost drops right back onto the bench. _That's not a flannel shirt_.

It's pink. And _glittery_.

And it has _Dean's face on it._

"Balls."

He swears off alcohol for at least a month.

* * *

The weekend comes and goes without anything special happening. Well, except for the whole curse-reversing magic that allows Dean to wake up on Sunday to his phone- the one that had been stolen from him- ringing on the bedside table. Blindly he reaches for it, answering the call without checking for a caller ID first.

"Winchester."

It's Sam's concerned voice on the other end that makes him startle into a state of slightly more awareness. "You sound sick," his brother declares. "Are you okay?"

"M'fine," Dean grumbles sleepily, "You just woke me up, is all."

"Dean, it's two-thirty in the afternoon, you've never slept this long in your life."

"Well, I did today." Dean rolls out of bed to see if everything else in his house and backyard has gone back to normal as well. "There a point to this call?"

"Uh, yeah actually. You remember Becky Rosen from my high school English Lit class?"

The mechanic had a very bad feeling about what was coming. His house may be back in order but that didn't mean that the rest of the town is as well. "Sure," he says carefully. "The cracked stalker chick."

"Yeah. Her. She just posted a new album on Facebook with pictures of like two hundred people in bright pink t-shirts. Everyone's sharing it like crazy."

Dean winces and is really glad Sam can't see it. "You young people and your lingo, man," he jokes. "I don't get why you needed to tell me about that."

"Because, Dean," and now Sam sounds exasperated, "she photoshopped _your_ face onto every single shirt. It looks like a freaking Dean-Parade or whatever." There's a short pause before he adds, "Wait. It _is_ photoshopped, right?"

"Yeah, no sure. Totally… totally photoshopped," Dean agrees.

"Can you believe that girl? It's been years and she still won't leave us alone." Dean doesn't know what to say to that but it turns out he doesn't have to because his brother changes the subject before he can even take a breath."So, Dean. Haven't heard from you in a couple days."

"And?" The mechanic has a faint idea where the conversation may be headed. Doesn't mean he can't hope that he's wrong.

"That wouldn't by any chance have something to do with Castiel, would it?"

'Course he's not wrong. "What?"

"Well, you know. Last time I heard from you, you were using his phone. I'm guessing things went well?" The jerk sounds fare more amused than Dean has any nerve for.

It's not Sam's fault, after all there's no way for him to know about the craziest week of Dean's life. Yet he still has the urge to snap at his little brother for bringing Castiel up. "Nah, Sammy," he says dismissively. "We don't actually have anything in common." _Like, he enjoys being a backstabbing ass while I don't really appreciate that_ , he adds mentally.

Sam may be somewhere halfway across the country but Dean can practically _sense_ his brother's raised eyebrows. "Really? Wow. I mean, I guess it makes sense. He seems to be intelligent and mature while you're, well... you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Sam says too quickly. "Nothing. It's just you seemed really interested in him so I thought you'd get over yourself and your weird book aversion."

"Hey, I did everything I could think of to make a good impression, alright? I- I _cooked_ for him, we talked a lot-he's really funny, actually- we read Vonnegut together..."

Sam bursts out laughing. "Who are you and what did you do to my brother?"  
When Dean doesn't reply the younger Winchester is suspiciously silent for a long moment before he speaks again. "Dude. You're so whipped."

"Shut up," Dean grumbles. "That's not the point. He did something that- he broke my trust alright?"

"Look. What I'm trying to say is you obviously care about the guy. Enough so that whatever he did hurt you. But was it really bad enough to not give him another chance?"

"I don't know, Sam. He's a massive dick."

"For the record; that's the kind of vocabulary you should avoid when talking to your brother about possible love interests of yours. But you can be a real jerk too. And I really think you need someone like him. Someone that challenges you. I mean you've known him for like a week and you seem more balanced than you have in a while."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Phil, I thought I was talking to my brother," Dean jokes even though he knows Sam kind of has a point. And he doesn't even know half of it.

"Alright. Play it cool all you want," Sam gives in. "But you do deserve to be happy."

The mechanic sighs. "Yeah. Thanks, Sam."

"You're Welcome." Even over the phone the jerk sounds smug. "Keep me in the loop."

"Say Hi to Jo for me."

" _Tell the ass if he wants to say Hi he can call me himself_ ," he hears someone holler. Of course Jo has been listening.

"Bye, Dean," Sam says, hurriedly ending the call.

* * *

After his brother's call, Dean spends all of Sunday brooding. He wants to be mad at Castiel, but he also kind of understands why the guy did what he did. Which doesn't change the fact that the dude overreacted epically. So the mechanic feels entitled to at least one entire weekend of being pissed off.

He almost changes his plan and drives straight to the bookstore when he looks outside on Monday morning and sees his duffle bag just sitting there on his front porch. But instead of thinking about what that action may imply, the mechanic drives his Impala to work.

The first thing he sees upon getting out almost gives him a heart attack because across the yard he spots Garth wearing one of these dreadful bright pink t-shirts. The sight sends him into a mild panic because _what if Meg never actually lifted the curse?!_

A moment later his fears are disproven when the lanky guy walks up to him, pats his arm and wishes him a super-duper morning. For the first time Dean is happy that his coworker is merely _Garth_ -weird, not _advanced-lunatic_ -weird.

Still, to make absolutely sure everything is back to normal, Dean decides to check in with Bobby. He walks over to the familiar office door, knocks and walks right in because it's not like Bobby would actually _not_ let him in. Inside everything looks normal enough. Bobby is sitting in his chair, flicking through an issue of Vintage Motorsport and looking grumpy as ever. It's a beautiful, beautiful sight.

"Hey, Bobby."

Bobby almost topples over in his chair as he looks up at Dean, a haunted look in his eyes. "Whaddaya tryin' to give an old man a stroke?"

"Sorry, just wanted to-"

"I don't pay you for chit chat, boy. Get your butt outta here."

Dean's face kind of hurts from smiling so hard. "Thanks," he says before showing himself out. As far as he remembers there's a Cadillac waiting to be restored and it's got his name on it.

* * *

The day passes rather quickly while working on the beautiful car. Maybe a little too quickly. It's nice to be back on the job after his involuntary timeout and Dean wouldn't mind pulling an all-nighter but none of the spare parts have arrived yet and Bobby is even gruffer than usual. Which is nice, especially since the memory of gleeful Bobby still gives him nightmares. However, it also means Dean gets sent home at 4pm on the dot and has no longer an excuse to avoid Castiel.

He drives down Main Street with an uneasy feeling in his gut, still slightly jumpy whenever it seems like someone looks his way. Thankfully, no one appears to be even remotely interested in him personally. Baby, on the other hand, gets more than one appreciative whistle and Dean couldn't be more proud. That's the kind of attention he can deal with.

Throwing the Impala into 'park', he stops right in front of Divine Words. Dean stays seated for a moment, wiping his hands on his grimy work pants, before he gets out and nervously walks up to the front door. A sign tells him that the shop is closed, _apologies for any inconvenience_ , signed _CN_.

Okay, so Castiel's not here. That's cool.

Well, not exactly. But Dean isn't all that surprised. He also doesn't give up just like that. After spending the better part of a week with the guy he thinks that he knows the place Castiel would go to. The only specific place he ever mentioned that has any meaning to him. With a determined nod to himself Dean hurries back to his car and speeds off fast enough for it to look like a getaway after a robbery.

It doesn't take long until he arrives at the car park on the outskirts of town, especially not with him driving well above the speed-limit. It's more like a suggestion anyway. As he gets out of the car again he sees the narrow footpath leading to the lakeshore and follows it for a couple of yards until the water comes into view. It's a breathtaking sight that presents itself to Dean. The shrubbery on both sides of the path grows thinner until it's gone altogether and nothing obscures the body of water. Looking out at the lake he watches the small waves create an uneven surface even while there's barely any wind and takes a moment to bask in the unrivaled tranquility the place offers. Dean can see why Castiel likes it.

Speaking of Castiel. Out in a single red rowing boat tied to the pier sits a lone, trench-coated figure that makes Dean's heart beat double-time once he catches sight of it. He thanks all higher powers that he was right in looking for the other man here and moves from his spot, casually walking up to Castiel. Once he stands close enough that his shadow falls over the bookseller he clears his throat.

"Got room for one more?"

The boat tips dangerously to the side with the momentum of Castiel turning to face him, eyes wide and as stunning as ever. "Dean." He swallows once, studying Dean closely before motioning for him to sit on the wooden plank adjacent to the one he himself is using as a bench. "Please join me."

Carefully, the mechanic climbs into the small boat, ignoring the way it wavers until he's securely seated. Once his butt is planted on the makeshift bench they stare at each other for a very long moment. "So," Dean finally breaks the silence. "Come here often?"

It's a lame thing to say, probably the lamest he's ever used, but it does the trick. Castiel's almost-smile makes a brief appearance. "What made _you_ come here?" he asks somberly, not deeming Dean's question worthy of a serious answer.

"You," Dean replies, surprised how the confession doesn't scare him at all.

Another silence stretches between them, only broken by the splashing of water against wood and their soft exhales until Castiel looks away. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am."

"All I want to know is _why_ , Cas," Dean says quietly. "I mean, did I really piss you off that bad?"

"Yes," Castiel answers. "But it wasn't just that. I just got out of a very serious relationship not too long ago. That person used a similar method of getting my attention and I fell for it and ended up hurting. So not only was your flirtation horrendously crude but on top of that very ill-timed." The bookseller gazes back at Dean, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "It stands unquestioned that this does in no way excuse my overreaction."

"Okay," Dean murmurs thoughtfully. "But why did you act like you had no idea what was going on when I came to stay with you? I mean, you could've called Meg way sooner. Plus, I'm still sure you hid that freakin' book from me."

Castiel nods. "I did. For a petty reason, no less." He licks his lips. "I was lonely. And you… As much as I tried to stay neutral you just wouldn't back away. I can't remember the last time anyone showed this much interest in me without ulterior motives of the physical kind."

"Who says I didn't have those?" It's supposed to be a joke but Dean is also curious what the other man thinks.

"Because I have gotten to know you as well, Dean," Castiel says, reaching out to place a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder. "You hide behind your bravado and good looks because you think that somehow that is what society expects from you. But behind that caricature you're kind and caring and it makes me sad how few people get to see you like this. At the same time I feel privileged to have witnessed this side of you."

"Good looks, huh?" Dean says with a wink, getting a huff of laughter out of the man across from him.

"Really, Dean? I attempt to explain myself and _that_ is what you choose to comment on? Maybe I was too hasty in complimenting your character."

"Sorry," Dean says quickly. "It's just… You're this amazing guy, Cas. You're smart and you know what you want and you're illegally hot. For you to say all those nice things about me- It's hard for me to accept them, alright?"

"It doesn't make them any less true. You deserve to be happy, Dean. Realizing your own value is part of that."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I told you you'd get along great with my brother, he told me something similar the last time we talked."

The almost-smile makes another appearance, only this time it stays and even transforms into something that might count as actual half-grin. "Maybe it's time you believed it, then."

"May need some more convincin'." They somehow leaned in closer and closer during the conversation, their voices hushed and intimate while Castiel's hand still rests on Dean's shoulder as if he wishes to leave a permanent mark there.

"I can help with that," Castiel murmurs, searching Dean's eyes in earnest. "If you will let me."

Before Dean can do anything more than nod his head, a dry pair of lips covers his, effectively short-circuiting every thought process whatsoever. It's merely a quick peck, over just as sudden as it started, but Dean is sure it's already the best kiss he's had so far. Neither pulls back far and Dean seizes the moment to finally run a hand through Castiel's hair, eyes still shut. They stay like that for a little while, just enjoying the moment.

"Hey, uh," Dean says suddenly, his voice rough with emotion. "Promise me the next time I screw up you'll just send a tiny raincloud after me?"

Castiel's silent laugh is just a warm huff of air against Dean's face before he kisses him again.

* * *

 

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. 27k of utter nonsense. I have no idea how it ever got this long but I do hope that it made you smile. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
